


Vita Nova

by AMidnightDreary



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Aziraphale uses modern inventions but isn't very good at it, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Footnotes, Late Night Conversations, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mild Smut, Panic Attacks, Pining, Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol, Relationship Negotiation, Repressed Memories, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2020-05-14 04:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 90,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19266130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMidnightDreary/pseuds/AMidnightDreary
Summary: “Angel, bloody hell. Hi. You doing okay? Do you have any idea what’s going on?”It was quiet for a few seconds.“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said then, still polite, but a bit perplexed. “Who is this?”*Crowley, upon finding that Aziraphale does not remember him, is very much Not Okay with the changes Adam made after the Apocalypse That Wasn't. He can't do anything but try and make the best out of it, though.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This could also be titled Self-Indulgence. I enjoy playing around with memory loss too much.
> 
> Also I finally figured out that I should only start posting a multi-chaptered story when it's already completely written. Updates will be once a week, probably on Mondays.
> 
> Enjoy!❤
> 
> The amazing **rebecca404** made an equally amazing cover for this! Check it out on [tumblr](https://goodomensficrecommendations.tumblr.com/post/615785680559390720/vita-nova-amidnightdreary-good-omens-neil) and give it some love!

In that book which is my memory,

On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,

Appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life’.

\- Dante Alighieri, _La Vita Nuova_

 

*

 

Crowley woke up groggy, like he had somehow forgotten to sober up. It wouldn't have been the first time that happened.[1] He made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a gurgle, and tried out whether his limbs allowed him to move them or not. They were reluctant, but not entirely unwilling, which was acceptable. Crowley found that he was lying in a bed, face buried in the pillows, on which he had apparently drooled. His head was close to exploding when he rolled onto his back, and the lids of his eyes were sticky and did not actually want to be opened. He forced them to, naturally, and then promptly had to pinch his eyes shut again because there was light coming through windows, and it was far too bright. He felt like he was going to be sick, and the headache wasn’t going away either, so Crowley thought his hangover away.

Or, well.

He _tried_ to.

“Nnngh,” Crowley made, because _What the fuck?_ was a far too complicated thing to say right now.

He tried it again, but the pain refused to bugger off. His heart started to beat faster, and Crowley wondered whether he might be panicking a little. He gave his best to stifle the feeling - it made the sting behind his temples even worse - and forced his body to move.

He managed to get out of bed after a few tries, but then the room was spinning around him and the floor was swept away under his feet, and he fell.

“Grraarggh.”

The sound was definitely less confused and more frustrated. Crowley didn’t know what was going on, and his thoughts were hazy, all frayed at the edges. He realized that he _was_ going to be sick, and that he would not make it to the bathroom in time. Summoning up a bucket or something failed, and before Crowley could freak out about that, it was already too late.

He managed to sit up after a while, slumping against the bed, and looked at the mess he’d made. He had the distinct feeling that he had never vomited before, or maybe he just couldn’t remember. It was horribly disgusting, he found now, and he’d rather not do it again.

He tried to make the mess disappear, but it didn’t want to.

Crowley blinked a few times, eyes still squinting in the light. “Fuck,” he said, matter-of-factly, and dragged himself into the bathroom.

Crowley liked to take a nice and hot shower, every once in a while. Not because he actually needed to clean himself or anything - at least not by hand - but because he liked the heat, the water falling down on him. Certainly wasn’t the worst thing humans had come up with, showers. Crowley also had a bathtub that was just as big and luxurious as his shower, but he rarely used that. He always fell asleep in the tub sooner or later and then the water was bound to get cold, so Crowley simply preferred to sleep in his bed.

He didn’t even glance at the bathtub this time, even though he wasn’t sure if he could remain standing on his feet long enough to take a proper shower. But he got rid of his clothes - the same he’d worn yesterday, he thought absently - and slid under the hot stream of water. The sound he made could have been a hiss, but it wasn’t, not really.

When he felt clean again, Crowley found that he could think a bit more clearly, too. There was still the headache that refused to go away, and the nausea and slight dizziness, but he thought that he was probably not discorporating or anything, so that was good. He told himself that he’d really just not sobered up last night and that he was _too_ hungover to use his powers now, and that it would all be alright in a few hours.

He stopped believing that when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

Crowley, still naked, blinked slowly at his reflection, his eyes going comically wide. He shuffled to the sink and braced himself on it, leaning forward until his nose almost touched the glass. He blinked again. And again and again and again.

“The fuck,” he said, and it was very nearly a shriek.

His eyes were brown.

Crowley opened his mouth and stretched out his tongue. It wasn't forked. He looked down at his feet; no scales. Back at his eyes again. No slitted pupils. _Brown._

Brown, like whiskey - no, darker, less amber, more… Chocolate, Aziraphale might say, or -

“ _Fuck_ ,” Crowley said for the third time since waking up, and rushed out of the bathroom.

He came to a slithering halt in front of the telephone and told it to call the angel before he even picked up the receiver. The phone didn’t call anyone, though, so Crowley had to dial the number himself. He held his breath as he waited for Aziraphale to answer, and only now realized that he was indeed _breathing_ , and that _not_ breathing got rather uncomfortable after -

“Hello?” Aziraphale’s voice said, polite as ever. “I’m afraid we’re closed at the moment, but -”

“ _A_ _ngel_ , bloody hell. Hi. You doing okay? Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

It was quiet for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said then, still polite, but a bit perplexed. “Who is this?”

Crowley spluttered. “ _Who_ _is_ \- Aziraphale, it’s me, come on. You know who I am.”

“Could it be that you've dialed the wrong number? Because I really -”

“This isn’t funny, angel,” Crowley snapped. “I don’t know what’s happening and my eyes are all wrong and I can’t do blasted miracles, and I can’t remember what -”

He cut himself off abruptly. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t _remember._ Had he even gotten drunk the evening before? What time was it, anyway? Seven am, the clock said, it was early. What had happened yesterday? Hadn’t there been something about -

“Sir,” Aziraphale said, sounding much more wary all of a sudden. (Also, _sir_? What the fuck? He'd never called Crowley that before.) “I’m afraid I don’t know what you are speaking about, and I really think we don’t know each other.”

“We do!” Crowley interrupted, knowing that his voice was becoming shrill but unable to do anything against it. “We _know_ each other, we’ve known each other for the longest time, you can’t just -” He took a few deep breaths, and why on Earth did he even need to breathe, that wasn’t _normal._

“Calm down, dear,” Aziraphale said. “If you need help, I -”

“I’m coming over,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, and hung up.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit._

Something was horribly, awfully, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

Crowley went and retched again. Not because he was hungover or sick, but because he was _scared._

 

*

 

Some time later, Crowley stood in front of his Bentley, and didn’t manage to get it to open the door for him.

“C’mon, baby,” he pleaded. “It’s _me_ , okay? Old Crowley. You can trust me. Just - arghh.”

An older man passed him by and seemed rather confused about why Crowley was talking to a car. Crowley wanted to give him a proper fright, just because he could. But it turned out that he _couldn’t_ , and all he managed was a pathetic snarl. The man frowned at him and looked away, hurrying his steps.

Crowley proceeded glaring at the Bentley.

It still wouldn’t open, not without keys.

He had no idea where he’d even last _seen_ the bloody car keys.

 

*

 

Three hours later - he had found the keys after a long time of searching -, Crowley parked the Bentley directly in front of the bookshop. He'd spent the drive squinting warily at the radio, but it had played Queen's Greatest Hits and nothing else.

Crowley had planned to make a beeline for the door and ask Aziraphale what the hell was going on, but he didn't get that far. No, he hadn't even closed the car door when he stilled, staring at the young woman who was just leaving the bookshop. She was looking over her shoulder, smiling brightly and saying something Crowley wasn't actually interested in hearing, and she was also carrying a bag that very obviously contained books.

It was Aziraphale who held the door open for her. It was Aziraphale who she was talking to. It was Aziraphale who smiled back at her, and who looked after her for just a moment before he got back inside, gently closing the door behind him.

He hadn't spared Crowley a single glance.

Crowley swallowed and locked the car, then approached the angel's shop. He found himself… unable to just walk through the door, which was ridiculous. He'd walked through that door a million times, but something - something about this was off. His stomach was still churning.

He looked through a window, at the end. His eyes searched for Aziraphale, and when they found him, his mouth dropped open.

The angel was currently standing on a small step ladder, which helped him reach the top shelves. His head was cocked to one side and he was smiling, fingers wandering over the spines of several books before he pulled one of them out. He was also talking, stepping down the ladder and showing the book to the man who was standing next to him. The man already held a book in his hands, but glanced at the cover of the other one, pensive.

Crowley watched for nearly ten minutes as they compared the books. Aziraphale took another one from the shelves after six of them, and he was still smiling and  also babbling away. Even from where he stood, Crowley knew that the angel was enjoying whatever was going on at the moment - he knew Aziraphale well enough after thousands of years, after all. He knew what that smile meant, could tell by the way it reached Aziraphale's eyes that it was sincere. There was also the way he moved, quick - but not get-it-over-with-quick, no, that was I-know-what-I-am-doing-quick - and excited, but careful all the same. Friendly, considerate and charming, even, in an slightly odd way. And none of it was feigned or forced; Crowley could tell.

The man ended up buying two of the books.

Aziraphale carried them to a counter Crowley had never seen before. An actual counter, where people could buy stuff, with a cash till and a little rack with bookmarks and other trinkets, perfect fot charming customers into buying something they didn't really need or want in the last seconds before they left.

That was deeply, deeply worrying.

Aziraphale rang the man up and briefly disappeared behind the counter, then reappeared with a paper bag for the man's books. He walked this customer to the door, too, and then -

"- as always a pleasure, Mr. Adley," Aziraphale's voice said, warm and cheerful. "And do step in to tell me what you think of them."

"Oh, I will," Mr. Adley replied. "We both know that I never manage to stay away for long. If you really manage to track down that first edition -"

"You'll be the first to know," Aziraphale promised earnestly, handing over the bag with the books. "Have a lovely day."

"You too, Mr. Fell."

And the man was gone.

Aziraphale stood there for a moment longer, stretching of all things, attentive eyes scanning the street.

Crowley knew what would happen before it happened, and pretended to be examining the display of books in the shop window.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, still standing in front of the door. "Hello, sir. Are you looking for something special or just browsing?"

Crowley could see his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were still brown. "Just browsing," he said, his voice quiet, absent. He dug his nails into his thighs.

"Ah," made Aziraphale, not at all disappointed. "Don't hesitate to come in when something catches your attention, I'd be happy to assist."

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale wished him a good day and went back inside.

There was a sign at the door window that read the following:

 

**Monday to Friday:**

9.00 AM - 11.00 AM

1.00 PM - 6.00 PM

**Saturday:**

10.00 AM - 3.00 PM

**Closed on Sundays**

 

*****

Crowley pulled over as soon as the bookshop was out of sight. He noticed that he wasn't getting enough air, that he was breathing too fast and too raggedly. The headache was getting worse again as well.

His forehead met the wheel with a soft thud, his eyes squeezed shut. He tried to use his powers - something easy, something tiny, something he could do with just a single brief thought.

The radio didn't start playing Queen.

 

* * *

 

1Drunk Crowley often chose not to sober up because he actually quite liked being drunk, and then Hungover Crowley had to deal with the consequences of staying drunk until the point of passing out on the closest and more or less horizontal surface. Of course, dealing with those consequences was rather easy, given that he could make them vanish with but a thought. [return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley went home. He stayed home for a week and panicked, then started to leave his flat in the early morning each day because staring at the walls became unbearable. It didn’t take long to figure a few things out, and those things were the following:

  1. He needed to breathe. If he didn’t, he would most likely pass out. Maybe die.
  2. He had to drink. Preferably water.
  3. After two days, he had a horrible, clenching feeling in his gut. That feeling was called hunger.
  4. Sleep was no longer only a possibility, but it became, at least after seventy hours, obligatory.
  5. He had lost every sort of demonic power he’d ever had, and contacting Below didn’t work.



And, the conclusion:

     6. Crowley had, somehow, stopped being a demon, and started being human.

There was also the fact that he wasn’t the only one. But that he hadn’t figured out, that he’d already _known_ , because the memory was ingrained in his very being. There was an angel he’d known, once, in a bookshop in Soho. That bookshop had regular opening hours for the very first time since the angel had bought it, which had been almost three centuries ago. The angel didn’t remember that he had been an angel, and he didn’t remember the demon he’d known for six thousand years, either. He didn’t remember anything.

Crowley was terribly sure of that by now. He drove to Soho every other day and walked up and down the street, changing sides every so often. He watched customers walk in and out of the shop, and he watched through the windows as Aziraphale talked to them and sold them books - _sold_ his books! - and smiled; Aziraphale smiled quite a lot. And it wasn’t like the angel Aziraphale hadn’t smiled Before, or that he hadn’t been polite to his customers, but he’d always managed to smile and be polite _and_ convince anyone who wanted to buy a book that they didn’t _really_ want to buy that book. Crowley thought that, in those three centuries, Aziraphale had sold eleven books at the most.

 _This_ Aziraphale, though - he was different. Human, probably, like Crowley, only that he wasn’t freaking out over it. He didn’t remember.

For the first time in six thousand years, Crowley was truly, terrifyingly alone.

 

*

 

It took about four weeks, and then things started to come back. Slowly, at first, then faster; a rain of memories that might as well have been acid.

The first thing Crowley remembered was fire - first a bookshop, then a car. He remembered the heat of the flames and the single book he’d saved, he remembered that this _wasn’t_ the first time he’d felt so terribly alone. He remembered that Aziraphale had taken that book out of Crowley’s own car, after he’d switched on the light in a dark forest, even though a human had been present. Crowley remembered the witch to whom the book belonged, and that she’d been there on the tarmac, just seconds away from the end of the world. He remembered four creatures and four children, and Aziraphale with the flaming sword he’d lost - _given away_ \- so long ago.

He also recalled that boy, he knew that he had to find him. _Again._

 

 

*

 

On the way to Lower Tadfield, Crowley listened to Queen, his fingers drumming along on the wheel, slightly off-key. He didn’t know where the former Antichrist lived, but he did know where the witch lived. He parked the Bentley - which had _somehow_ survived the whole fire thing - in front of the cottage and sauntered to the door. It was early afternoon, a sunny day, and Crowley was feeling rather anxious. Not that he would ever have admitted that.

A young man opened the door and blinked at Crowley in surprise. He was holding a yogurt and a spoon, but he didn’t seem to remember that. Crowley needed a moment to remember that this man had been involved in the Almostageddon, too.

“Hi,” he said, waving halfheartedly. “I need to speak to the witch.”

“Oh,” the man said. Yogurt dropped from his spoon to the floor. “Er. She has a name, you know.”

“Good for her. Where is she?”

“She is, uh -”

“Here,” the witch’s voice said. She appeared behind the man and not so subtly - but gently - pushed the other human out of the way to look at Crowley. She blinked at him in surprise as well, but caught herself a bit more quickly than her friend. “Oh, you.”

Crowley gave her a grin that was not _entirely_ sincere. “Yeah, me. Listen, where exactly do I find the Antichrist?”

“Why do you want to find him?”

“None of your business.”

“I won’t help you, then.”

Crowley briefly contemplated threatening her. But, given that he didn’t have access to his powers while she was probably (maybe?) still a witch, he thought that threatening her likely wouldn't go that well. He settled for glaring at her, instead.

“I have a problem, and I need to talk to him. Just that.”

“Hm.” The witch looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. I’ll bring you to him.”

“Uh,” the man chimed him again. “Anathema -”

“I won’t be long, “ _Anathema_ \- which would be a fitting name for a demon, Crowley thought - said and disappeared briefly to procure a coat. She said goodbye to the man who was apparently called Newt and joined Crowley outside, closing the door behind herself.

“It’s not far,” she said, and then, “there are things like telephone books and stuff, you know."

"As if anyone's still using telephone books."

"Online ones, then," Anathema said, but Crowley just shrugged. He still couldn't remember the boys name. After a moment, Anathema added, "You were sort of on our side, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I mean. Whose side, exactly?”

“ _Our_ side. Humans.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, right, I - yes. You guys are awesome. Wonderful invention.”

Anathema threw an odd look at him. “Where’s that friend of yours?”

“Friend?” Crowley echoed, determinedly not looking at her.

“Yes. The kinder one. He persuaded you to bring me home, back then. You seemed kind of inseparable.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Him.”

“Yes. Where is he?”

 _I gave it away_ , Crowley heard suddenly, even though that wasn’t right. He hadn’t given Aziraphale away; he’d never do that. _Couldn’t_ do that. No - somebody had taken him away _from_ him.

“That’s sort of the problem I’m having,” he said, a little weakly.

Anathema frowned, but didn’t say anything else. Crowley didn’t bother to fill the silence that followed. Anathema led the way through this ridiculous, almost too perfect village, and he was rather glad when they left it. Even though he wasn’t sure why they left it.

“Uh,” he said. “Look, thanks and all, but I’m very sure that he’s _in_ the village, not -”

“They often play in the woods,” Anathema cut him off. “Just go that way, you’ll find him there.”

Right. “Not coming with, huh?”

“It’s not like he needs protection, you know,” the witch said, already turning to leave. Over her shoulder, she added, “Especially not from a demon that’s not actually a demon anymore.”

_Right._

“Well, thanks, anyway,” Crowley drawled after her. “You’ve been a great help, really.”

“Welcome,” she called back, unbothered by his tone. A few seconds later she was out of sight.

Crowley huffed and stalked off into the direction she’d indicated.

It didn’t take long until he reached what the Them called “the Hollow”. Or the “Secret Base”. And in that pit, which was cramped with what adults would consider rubbish while children thought of it as treasures, Crowley found four kids. Three of them were rather normal, the fourth - or rather the first - happened to be the son of Satan. _Adam_ , Crowley thought now, his head getting clearer. _Adam Young._

Adam Young grinned brightly when he saw the former demon. “Oh, s’you! Heyo!”

“Hullo,” Crowley said, a bit weakly. He hid his hands in his pockets. “I need to talk to you, kid. You got a moment?”

“Sure,” Adam allowed lightly. “C’mon, you can join us. We’re playing Black Volga!”

“Black Volga,” Crowley echoed, skeptical. He slithered down into the hollow.

“Yup.” The only girl in the group looked at him a bit warily. “That’s a car that kidnaps children.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “I’ve heard of it.”

“How is your car?” Adam asked. He was wearing a black billycock hat, which somehow made Crowley wonder whether he was supposed to be the Volga in question.

“Fine,” Crowley replied. “Thanks for repairing it."[1]

“You’re welcome,” the boy said, then turned to one of his male companions. “You really should get into the car.”

“I don’t want to,” the other child said, crossing his arms.

“You have to,” the girl said.

“Actually -” The third boy pushed up his glasses. “He doesn’t have to. If Adam asks for the time and Brian says, ‘’It’s God’s time’, then he doesn’t -”

“Oh, come on,” Crowley said. “That’s rubbish. No demon’s actually scared by the mention of Her. It’s annoying, but it doesn’t keep anyone from kidnapping anyone.”

The girl perked up. “Did you just say _Her_?”

“Yes.” Crowley turned to Adam. “I _really_ need to speak to you.”

“Okay.” Adam jumped off what was apparently a throne of rubbish. He called his dog, who was apparently called Dog, and tossed his hat over to the girl. "Your turn, Pepper."

Pepper grinned, and a few seconds later they were immersed in their game again. Adam and Dog came over to Crowley. The boy was grinning at the former demon in a way that set Crowley on edge.[2]

"What did you do?" Crowley asked.

"After the whole airbase thing, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I changed everything," Adam said, his smile dimming a little. "It was easy."

"Yes, but _what_ did you _do_?" Crowley pressed on, staring at the boy. "And what do you want?"

"Nothing much," the Antichrist said, scratching his nose. "It'll all be good now. I mean, not _good_ good, but… good. It'll work better like this, with both of your people gone."

"Gone," Crowley echoed. " _Gone_. Do you - did you actually do what I think you did?"

"Yeah."

"Heaven and Hell, gone. You - you killed Them Both, didn't you? God and -"

Adam shook his head and interrupted, "I didn't kill nobody. Just changed them."

"Changed them into what?"

"Into what they are," Adam said, which didn't explain anything at all. "What they _mean_ , you know?" He paused, then shrugged. "Okay, they're not _really_ gone, I guess. They're still there. In all the normal people. They've always been in them, but now They can't intervene from outside anymore. It's all up to the people now, finally." Crowley looked at him blankly, and Adam blinked. "Do you understand?"

Crowley wasn't sure. "Yes," he said. "But what about us?"

"Us?"

"The angel and me."

"Oh." Adam shrugged again. "You weren't really on either side anymore. You were starting to get normal, and you tried to help a lot. Thought you'd like to stay."

"Without our powers."

Adam just nodded.

"So you just - you actually made us human, didn't you? Drinking, eating, sleeping, the whole shebang?'

"You shouldn't intervene, either."

"Yeah, right, sure. _Shouldn't_ _interfere_ , of course, no, we won't. You could've just _told us that_ , you know. Or just bloody killed us right away!"

Adam considered that for a moment. "Nah," he said then, decidedly.

"I want you," Crowley demanded through clenched teeth, "to _change it again_."

Adam frowned. "I didn't mean to make you upset."

"Didn't _mean_ to- of course I'm fucking upset! He doesn't even remember! That's not - not _right_ , okay, it's fucking awful. Can't just take memories away from people like that."

"I can't change it back." Suddenly, Adam was grinning again. "I'm human now, too. Completely, I mean."

Crowley stared at him. This was bloody hopeless. He tried to remember how to breathe and looked away to where the other kids were playing. It was good for them, he supposed. Good for the entire world. Good for everyone _except Aziraphale and him._

"And what am I supposed to do now?" He muttered, only half expecting an answer.

"Don't ask _me_ ," the not-anymore-Antichrist replied with a laugh. "You're just like all the others now. Your friend, too. You two can do whatever you want."

"What the _fuck_ does that even mean?'

"It'll work better this way," Adam said again. "And you should talk to him."

Crowley clenched his teeth. He would not throw hands with an eleven year old, and certainly not with an eleven year old who was the literal spawn of Satan.

"He doesn't remember," he gritted out.

"Yeah, still."

" _Why_ doesn't he remember? And why - why do I?"

"I told you," Adam said. His tone was patient, but his eyes were flickering back to his friends; the conversation would soon be over. "I know all about you two. Just talk to him. He hasn't really changed."

And off he went to play with his friends.

 

*

 

The realization that humanity goes hand in hand with mortality came at two am on a Wednesday night, and it came with a nightmare.

 

*

 

It was a quarter past nine on a Thursday morning, and Crowley stood before the bookshop again. This time, he went directly to the door, and opened it. The soft sound of a bell announced his entrance.

Then there was a voice, coming from the backroom.

“One moment, I’ll be right with you!”

Crowley swallowed and walked over to one of the shelves, pretending to be looking at the books while he was in fact looking around the shop itself. It looked just like he remembered, all in all, which was a relief, since it had burned down the last time he’d been here. But there were also those changes that put him on edge - the checkout point, for one thing, and also the general lack of … an angelic presence. It had always been here, from the second Aziraphale had set a foot in here for the first time. This flicker of divine warmth in the air, something pure and occult  ethereal, something indescribable. Something simply, thoroughly _Aziraphale._ No other angel Crowley had ever met had been like that. They’d all been striking, sublime, strict - they’d said that they adored everything that had been Created, but it had been a cold sort of adoration. Crowley had always wondered if they’d ever even really _felt_ anything.

Aziraphale, however, he had been - was. He _was_ a being of love; a love that bordered on human, and also on hedonism. Selfishness, even. He loved Earth, he loved humanity, not because he was _supposed_ to, but because he’d grown impossibly fond of both within just a few centuries. And that had always radiated off him in waves, somehow - the ability to find pleasure in the smallest of things, to love anything at all. Most of all his love for books, of course; the whole bookshop had been full with it, to the brim, almost to the point of spilling over.

And Crowley, who had been supposed to _despise_ that, had always been… rather fond of it, actually. He’d always liked being in the bookshop.

Now, something was missing. It wasn’t like Crowley _felt_ like something was missing, he just knew that there was. He’d lost his ability to sense things like that, after all, just like Aziraphale had lost his ability to fill entire rooms with that particular sort of warmth just by being in them. But Crowley remembered what it had felt like, Before, and a part of him did miss it.

That part was small, though, at least at the moment. He was mostly busy panicking right now.

It didn’t take long until Aziraphale joined him. Crowley threw a quick smile at him and then looked away again; he needed to remind himself to keep breathing.

“Ah, hello,” Aziraphale said, apparently remembering him. Which was rather ironic. “Can I help you today, or are you still just browsing?”

“Oh,” Crowley made. He stared at Aziraphale for a moment, taking him in, waiting for the tiniest, most fleeting sign that Aziraphale, or at least a part of him, _remembered_ \- But there was nothing. Only an awkward smile when Crowley hadn't yet said anything even after a few seconds had passen. “Er. Well, I - Not really, I’m looking for, uh.” Hell. “I think I could need some help, yeah.”

“I’m at your disposal,” Aziraphale encouraged him. When Crowley didn’t say anything else, the (former) angel added, “You are looking for something special, then?”

Crowley had not thought about this beforehand. He really should have. But he had hoped - he'd _hoped_ . And now he felt dizzy, disoriented, because - He had known, of course he had known, but… Aziraphale couldn't _actually_ have forgotten him, could he? Not completely. There had to be something about Crowley that seemed familiar to Aziraphale, yes? Anything at all?

But no, there seemed to be nothing. Aziraphale looked at him just like he would probably look at any other customer that had entered his shop just to stare at him creepily.

“Yeah,” Crowley said slowly, and ended up saying the first thing that crossed his mind, “Do you have Dante?”

“Dante?” Aziraphale echoed, and for a moment an expression of reluctance scurried over his face.

Crowley was _incredibly_ relieved to see that.

Aziraphale caught himself quickly. “Alighieri, yes?” Crowley nodded. “Ah, yes, I have a few of his works. I suppose you’re looking for the _Divine Comedy_?”

“No, actually,” Crowley said, grinning. “What about _Vita Nova_?”

As predicted, Aziraphale started beaming. “Oh! Yes, of course, of course..” He led the way to another shelve. “I have a rather lovely volume with a few translations and a rather insightful commentary. Let me see…” He inclined his head, fingers dancing over the spines, clicking his tongue. Crowley found himself unable to stop watching. “Ah, there you are.”

He smiled at the book, and he smiled at Crowley. The former demon took the book and flicked through the pages without reading a single word. He realized that it was a rather recent volume, though; the paper felt new beneath his fingertips, untouched. It wasn’t one of those decades or _centuries_ old books that Aziraphale loved more than dining at the Ritz.

“Not what you’re looking for?”

“Not quite, no,” Crowley answered, his tone somewhat absent. For all he hadn’t been able to stop looking at Aziraphale a minute ago, now he couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes. “I was thinking of something… er, older?”

“Oh, I see,” Aziraphale said, sounding even more pleased than before. “I think I have just the right thing for you, then.”

He took the book from Crowley and put it back into the shelve, then walked away, motioning for Crowley to follow him. Crowley did, his steps light and careful. He had to fight the urge to run in the opposite direction.

“I keep the real treasures over here,” Aziraphale told him.“Because of the light, you see. They’re rather sensible.”

He was excited and maybe a little thoughtless; too proud of his possessions than a former angel should have been. He didn't need to feel guilty about that anymore.

He led the way into another room that also contained a lot of shelves, but was a little less overstuffed with books. Crowley vaguely remembered Aziraphale saying something along the lines of “these treasures need room to breathe, you see, I can’t just keep them with the others”. That hadn’t changed, apparently. Even though Aziraphale would never have allowed a customer to enter this room, Before.

Aziraphale switched on the light; a soft lamp that wouldn’t damage the books. He put on gloves and led the way to one of the shelves, where he crouched to inspect the books at the bottom.

“I have three wonderful editions at the moment,” he said. “The youngest was first published in 1916, here in London. The cover is lovely - leather, modelled on medieval styles, in very good condition.”

“Older,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale glanced up at him, smiling.

“Oh, gladly. What about 1847?”

“Older.”

The smile widened. “1592, Venice. It’s an Aldine, you’ll find the anchor on the final leaf. One of the loveliest bindings I’ve ever seen, I have to say - vellum, goldened bands at the spine, red edges.”

“May I see?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale nodded and brought the book over to a table. He showed it to Crowley, his fingers skilled and careful, voice excited, awed. Crowley was once again busy staring at the man himself, but he did try to listen to Aziraphale’s explanations.

He ended in a wistful sigh, eventually, gloved fingers stroking the cover.  “I would hate to part with it, I must admit. It’s been in my possession since - 2008, I think.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale agreed. He looked at Crowley, raising his brows. “Rather pricy too, of course.”

“Eh, that’s not a problem.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Well, I’d like to see it in good hands...”

“And I’m not suited?” Crowley asked with a snort. His hands were in his pockets; he tried to make them stop fidgeting.

“Oh no, no,” Aziraphale hurried to say, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. You’d treat it very well, I’m sure. I’ve got some sort of sixth sense for things like that.”

“Do you now,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale smiled and looked away. Maybe he was blushing, it was hard to tell in the dim light. Crowley made himself smile. “I’ll take the 1916 one.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Oh,” he said. “Ah, well, let me - let me show it to you first, then.”

He did, and again Crowley tried to listen, even though he was horribly distracted. He didn’t even like Dante. He’d been kind of annoying, but he knew that Aziraphale had been something like friends with the poet. The angel had been very sad about the whole Beatrice thing, He liked Dante’s works - well, most of them. Couldn’t stand the _Divine Comedy_ for unfathomable reasons. Crowley thought it was really funny.

He ended up buying the book. They got into a brief discussion about the price, just because Crowley wanted to see how Aziraphale would bargain. The former angel was good at it, which was more surprising than it should have been - Crowley believed he paid a tiny bit more than what the book was really worth, but it wasn’t like he minded. In fact -

“Rest’s for you,” he said when Aziraphale wanted to hand him the change.

“No,” Aziraphale said decidedly, eyes widening again. “No, no, that’s far too much. Besides, this _is_ my store.”

Crowley just shrugged and took one of the pretty bookmarks from the rack on the counter. “S’fine. I, uh. Don’t want stores like yours dying out, do we?”

Slowly, Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose not. Well then, let me -”  He took the bag with the book - he had safely stored it away in a proper case - and brought Crowley to the door, opening it for him. “Thank you very much, sir, it’s been a pleasure.”

“It’s Crowley.”

“Pardon?”

Crowley bit his tongue; he hadn’t _meant_ to say that. He took the bag that Aziraphale was still offering to him and held out his other hand. “My name, it’s Crowley. _Sir_ , that’s - er, not needed.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale glanced down at his hand and took it without hesitation. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley suppressed a sigh. Not good, but better. “No harm done, ah - Mr. Fell.” He pulled his hand back.

“Enjoy the book,” Aziraphale told him. He sounded a bit amused. “And don’t hesitate to come back if you’re looking for something special again. Or just to browse.”

Crowley, already standing on the street, nodded. “I will, thanks.”

One last smile, then they parted.

Two hours later, Crowley still felt like he couldn't breathe properly.

 

* * *

 

 

1In fact, he had been the one responsible for the urban legend about the Black Volga. He’d only driven around Poland a little and asked people about the time, and somehow that had led to them believing that the car was driven by Satan himself. Or a vampire. Crowley had gotten a commendation for that. How anyone could mistake a Bentley for a Volga was beyond him, though. [return to text]

2The reason for that might have been that it was a childish and entirely kind grin, which wasn't exactly what a former demon expected from the former Prince of Darkness.  
[return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because I'm busy tomorrow! Next week it'll probably a bit later than Monday, because exams. 
> 
> I hope you like it!

_[...] For several years, Adam Zacharias Fell has been one of the most renown rare book dealers in London. It's said that he has "a magic touch" regarding the chase of untraceable treasures, which is why every reasonable collector contacts him when they are looking for a particularly rare [...]._

Adam?

_Adam????_

Crowley only barely resisted the urge to throw the damned magazine across the room. Well. Actually, he didn't resist the urge at all. He didn't even try. The magazine ended up hitting the wall and then falling to the floor, where it stayed until Crowley picked it up again, many minutes later. He carried it back to his desk and sat down, gingerly flipping through the pages to find the right one.

There. _Adam Zacharias Fell._

Zacharias, fine. A name Aziraphale would even have chosen himself, maybe. But Adam? Couldn't the _real_ Adam have been a tiny bit more creative?

Crowley tried to read the article a second time, and this time succeeded. It was a double page in a magazine for book dealers, and he had only bought it because he'd needed ideas for his next visit to Aziraphale's bookshop. He didn’t know a lot about books[1], and he wanted to avoid making a fool of himself. That there was an article about Aziraphale himself in this very magazine was a damned coincidence.

_Ha._

Someone had wanted him to see this, probably.

There were two pictures. Three, really, but that third one just showed the bookshop from outside. The other two were of Aziraphale, so they were the important ones. In one of them, he was smiling right into the camera, eyes bright, face a little flushed. The other one showed him where he was most comfortable; buried in books while sitting at his desk. Reading glasses low on his nose, tongue peeking out at the side, a forgotten mug with what was most likely cocoa in his reach.

 _He forgot that we were there after some tim_ e, read the caption of the photo, _for which he apologized thoroughly when we reminded him._

It was odd. All the times Crowley had seen the former angel since he was a _former_ angel, he hadn't paid any sort of attention to Aziraphale's clothes. Only now he realized that there were different - just slightly, but still.

Overall, it was still the same style. If you could call it style, that is. The colours were certainly the same. But there was no knee-long overcoat and no bowtie, just a not quite white dress shirt beneath a very soft looking jumper, and slacks. Crowley didn't remember what Aziraphale had been wearing when he'd bought _Vita Nova_ \- he'd been too distracted talking to Aziraphale - so he didn't know whether Aziraphale still wore clothes from around 1900, now and then. Because the clothes on these photos were, while still unfashionable, not _that_ outdated. 

But that wasn't really important, was it? They did look like something Aziraphale would wear. Soft, comfortable, and, even though old, kept in “tip-top condition”. The look in his eyes was the same, too, and the smile - it _was_ Aziraphale, no doubt.

Adam was right. Of course he was - he was always right when he wanted to be.

But, still.

What was Crowley supposed to _do_?

 

*

 

He went back to the bookshop, naturally. He didn't have anywhere else to go, and Aziraphale _was_ there, after all.

It had been almost three weeks since his first purchase and, when he opened the door, Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would remember him. Not _him_ , coming to stand next to the angel on the wall of Eden, not _him_ , saving him from the Guillotine, not _him_ , giving him back some prophecy books. No, just him, buying an Aldine edition of _Vita Nova._ A part of Crowley was sure that Aziraphale would remember that - he’d remembered the first time they’d talked since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, too, and that had only been the exchange of a few words in front of the bookshop.

The door fell closed behind Crowley, the tiny bell chiming, but Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen. Crowley quietly cleared his throat and went to inspect the nearest display of books. He blinked down at them, wondering since when Aziraphale also had recent bestsellers in supply. Softly drumming on the cover of a thriller with his fingers, Crowley recalled a few occasions when Aziraphale had proudly told him about a book that had just been published and which he’d gotten signed by the author, just to add another first edition to his collection. So, maybe Aziraphale had always had recent bestsellers in supply, but not quite like this. None of these books were signed. 

After ten minutes, Aziraphale still hadn’t shown up. 

Crowley knew where to find him, of course. He let the unsigned books be and made his way to the backroom, which looked entirely the same. A mess of books and shelves and boxes; the office of someone who had a lot of paperwork to do and kept putting it off. And there was Aziraphale, sitting at his desk, hunched over a book, absently scribbling notes on a pad as he read[2] .

Crowley chewed at the inside of his lower lip for a moment, then straightened a bit and knocked on the doorframe with his knuckles. Aziraphale jumped and nearly managed to knock over his mug with his elbow. He took hold of it in the very last second, preventing cocoa from being spilled all over the desk. He still got some of it onto his hand.

“Oh, goodness,” he uttered, fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket to clean his hand. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even hear you come in. I was so absorbed in -” He had stood up and turned to look at Crowley, who was still standing in the doorframe. “Oh! Hello there. Mr. Crowley, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Crowley managed. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Aziraphale said again, walking over to him. “I’d, erm, give you my hand, but it’s a bit sticky now, so - ah.” He cleared his throat, face turning a little red. “Well. Can I help you with something?”

"Uh. Er, yeah, I -" Crowley forgot the book he'd wanted to ask about. Shit. "I'm looking for Shakespeare."

Aziraphale's smile became a little less awkward. "The man himself?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, grinning. "You don't happen to know him, do you?"

Aziraphale laughed. "No, I'm afraid not. I'd have loved to, though." He nodded his head and went back to the main room, Crowley following behind him.

"I've heard he was a bit annoying to be around."

"Shakespeare?"

"Yes. He kept giving the audience stage directions."

"Ah, well." Aziraphale stopped in front of a shelf. "We all have our quirks, I suppose. Would you mind having a look without me, first? I'd like to wash my hands."

"Yeah, go ahead."

Aziraphale rushed off, and Crowley stared at the books and wondered what for somebody's sake he was doing here.

It didn't take long until Aziraphale came back, asking what exactly Crowley was looking for. Which led to them having a friendly discussion about which of Shakespeare's works was the best. They had had that discussion a million times before, and Crowley changed his opinion each time, just to get a rise out of the angel.

Aziraphale didn't remember that, of course.

Crowley left the shop with a rather lovely edition of _Much Ado About Nothing_.

 

*

 

The next time, he bought something by Oscar Wilde. Aziraphale didn't mention that he had some signed first editions, and Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if this Aziraphale had them at all. He didn’t ask, because he knew that he’d be ridiculously upset should the answer be _no_.

 

*

 

It was almost eleven when Crowley entered the bookshop. He was perfectly aware of the time, and also of the fact that it would probably earn him a glare.

And there it was, the glare, coming from Aziraphale who was standing close by and rearranging some books. It was mild, though, and fairly brief; Aziraphale softened his expression as soon as he looked at Crowley properly. 

"Ah, hello," he said, beginning to smile. "I was just preparing to close."

"Yeah, I know."

Aziraphale raised a brow.

Crowley shrugged and pointed at the door. "Saw the opening hours. Erm. It's early, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry?'

"Eleven. It's early for lunch."

"Well, I - I like to have enough time to eat."

That sounded like Aziraphale, yes.

Crowley cleared his throat and pretended to look at the nearest books, tapping on one or two covers. "You've got five minutes left, I know, but - er. I mean, if you'd be willing to close the shop early, we could… have lunch."

"Oh," Aziraphale made, staring at him. "Lunch?"

"Yes."

Aziraphale blinked slowly. He still had a book in his hands, but now he set it down. "Lunch," he said again. "Yes, I…" A quiet, awkward laugh, disguised as an even more awkward cough. "I mean, I don't see why not. Let me just grab my coat and close up, then -"

Crowley was already nodding. "I'll wait outside," he managed, and they both hurried in opposite directions.

Fuck, this was weird.

They'd had lunch together so many, many times before. Also breakfast, brunch, tea, dinner - they'd tried about everything there was to try. But all those days since the Not Actually Doomsday, Crowley had eaten alone. Before, he hadn't ever eaten anything without Aziraphale being there to ~~force~~ gently convince him to.

Aziraphale left the bookshop not much later, and he gave Crowley a slightly peevish smile as he locked the door. He'd pulled on a wheat-coloured coat that looked a little worn, but only because it had been outdated for several decades. Crowley thought that he'd seen it on Aziraphale before - Before, actually.

"So," Aziraphale said, still fidgeting around with the keys. 

'So," Crowley echoed, trying his very best to act nonchalant. He wasn't sure if it was working. "Where did you wanna go? For lunch?"

"Well, it was _you_ who asked _me_ , so I think - I mean -" Aziraphale lifted the keys in some kind of vague gesture and almost managed to drop them. He slid them into the inside pocket of his coat, then. He even pressed his lips together to keep from babbling, which he'd done a lot in the six thousand years Crowley had known him.

Briefly, for just a fleeting second, Crowley wanted to hug him. Very much.

"Yeah, sure, but I didn't _actually_ mean to wreak havoc with your plans or anything, so if you had anything _planned_ -"

"I do," Aziraphale said. "I mean, I had. That is -" A grin; not much more than the flicker of an awkward smile, really. "Well. Do you like Indian?"

"Sure," Crowley said.[3]

"Oh, wonderful. It's not far, we could walk. Unless -"

"No no, walking's fine."

"Alright," Aziraphale said, jittery fingers wandering up his side and over his lapel. A nervous habit he'd acquired over the years. "Well then - this way."

Much to Crowley's surprise, walking next to Aziraphale was as easy as it had always been - the former angel walked a tiny bit faster than he would have on his own, Crowley slowed down his sauntering a little. If he only considered that, this wasn't awkward at all. Crowley could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that he'd just dropped by at the bookshop to tempt his angel to lunch, and that Aziraphale was aware who they were - had been - and what they had done. It was nice, imagining that. It would have been so much easier. 

He wondered what they would have done, sometimes. He remembered the bus ride[4] and falling asleep, but he didn't remember parting from Aziraphale. Maybe they would have… stayed together, if Adam hadn't decided to change the very way to world worked.

Maybe.

"So," Aziraphale said again, a little lighter this time. He was probably happy that he would have lunch at the restaurant he'd had in mind; he didn't like deviating from his plans. Especially not when they were about food. "Do you work in Soho, too?"

"Hmm?" Crowley made. "Work? Uh. No, not really."

"Oh. I could have sworn I've seen you around, now and then." Aziraphale considered for a moment, then added, "You certainly were in front of the bookshop a few times."

"Ah. Yes. I… take long walks, you know. Through Soho." Crowley  didn't enjoy lying to Aziraphale. He'd never enjoyed that. "And I like your shop. It's…", he waved his hand, searching for the proper word, "cozy."

Aziraphale beamed. His hands stopped fidgeting, instead he clasped them at his lower back. "Thank you," he said. "I'm always happy when people are comfortable in my shop. Even though it's a bit, ah, untidy at times."

"Untidy?" Crowley raised his brows. "I've seen the backroom, you know - if you call that _untidy_ , the augean stables were a cleanroom."

Just as planned, Aziraphale bristled. "You can't compare my backroom to the augean stables!" He huffed, sounding somewhere between affronted and guilty. "I admit that it could use some tidying up, but - none of it is _rubbish_! And I do know where everything is."

"Oh, do you?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said decidedly. Then he made a face. "Well, at least I should hope so? I don't often… search for things, back there."

"Yeah, because you've no bloody idea what you'll find! It's like - like a giant surprise box, innit? The whole shop."

Aziraphale scowled at him. "You say that as if it's a bad thing -"

"Nah," Crowley interrupted before his not-yet-friend could finish his sentence. "Nah, it's - you know. Charming. Cozy."

Aziraphale seemed satisfied. "You _have_ to say that, I suppose. Insulting my bookshop would be awfully rude, given that you just asked me to lunch."

"Not that I care much about being rude," Crowley said, "but I feel like insulting your shop or your books would have me eating lunch on my own."

"That feeling is correct."

"I'll try not to, then."

"How very kind of you." Aziraphale smiled at him, then looked forward. "Don't pretend that you were lying to get into my good graces, though. You _do_ like my bookshop."

Crowley couldn't keep from smiling, either. "I do, yeah."

It was so easy, telling him that now. Crowley had never told him, Before.

 

*

 

When they sat down to lunch, Crowley noticed two things.

First, talking to Aziraphale was just as easy and complicated as it had always been.

Second, Aziraphale had lost weight.

Not much, no. But enough that Crowley noticed it - noticed that the line of the angel’s jaw was a little more defined, his belly not quite as pudgy as Crowley remembered. It bothered the not-anymore-demon more than it should, somehow. Especially when Aziraphale declined dessert. 

“You sure?” Crowley asked, relaxing back into his chair, stretching. He himself hadn’t eaten a lot; he was still getting used to his stomach demanding food at all.[5]

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s tone was firm, but his eyes flickered back to the dessert menu.

“C’mon, I’d have something, too. My treat.”

Aziraphale shook his head, eyes wide. “No, I couldn’t -”

“Nonsense,” Crowley interrupted and snatched the menu from beneath Aziraphale’s fingers. “I’m offering. So, let’s see - Mango Halva? Or, erm, here, that fudge thingy - that’s really good here.” He looked up again to find Aziraphale looking at him, smiling in both amusement and slight sheepishness. Crowley blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, now definitely sheepish. “You’ve been here before?”

“Oh. Er, yes. Ages ago.” _With you. Before everything went pear-shaped._

Aziraphale nodded and looked away, fiddling around with his serviette for a moment before he remembered that that might be considered bad manners. “Well. If you insist…”

“I do.”

“- I shall try the Mysore Pak, then.”

“Ah, the fudge thingy.”

“Yes, the _fudge thingy._ What about you?”

“Er. I’ll take the mango thingy, then.”

Aziraphale actually rolled his eyes. He was also smiling, though.

 

*

 

Crowley ended up covering most of the bill, but only because he managed to fish his wallet out of his pocket faster than Aziraphale. Naturally, Aziraphale felt bad about that later, when they were walking back to the shop.

“I’d just like you to know that I didn’t agree to - this, I mean, to having lunch with you, just because I expected you to pay. Because I didn’t. Expect you to, I mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley said, then paddled back. “Oh wait, no. I don’t. Why _did_ you agree, then?”

Aziraphale blushed and gave him a mild glare. “I didn’t want to be rude,” he said, in that flippant tone of voice Crowley had come to… like.

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Aha, sure, yes. Can’t have you losing one of your regulars, huh?”

“You bought three books, that hardly makes you a regular.”

“Oh, but maybe I want to be one.”

The glare was replaced with a smile; a smile that Aziraphale tried to hide by turning his face away and clearing his throat. “You’re not even a collector,” he said, somewhat primly.

“Me?” Crowley replied, wide-eyed. “Not a collector? Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Aziraphale said firmly and turned to look at him again, “that you are not at all interested in my books.”

“Naww, come on! I told you that your shop’s cozy, I like it.”

“But you’re not a _collector_.”

“I do know some things about books, though. I liked Wilde. Dante was a bit annoying, but okay.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Not so much, no.”

“See, that’s what -”

“I liked talking about him, with you.”

Aziraphale faltered for a brief moment, his stern expression - which was a guise in the first place, of course - crumbling. “I enjoyed that, too,” he said, softer now. “You do know quite a lot about books, I’m not denying that. But you’re not -”

“Not a collector, no,” Crowley cut him off with a sigh. “I have about five books at home. So what? You don’t go out for lunch with not-collectors?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said. They had reached his bookshop, and he stopped walking to look at Crowley properly. “No. In fact, I have to admit that I’m -  rather charmed.”

Time came to a halt, for a moment. And in those very brief two seconds in which Crowley couldn’t possibly muster a reply, he thought about a thousand different things.

He thought about this: _Get thee behind me, foul fiend_. 

He thought about this: _I don’t even like you._  

He thought about this: _You go too fast for me, Crowley._  

He thought about this: _Go off together? Listen to yourself._

Of course, all those things were technically the same thing, and they all traced back to the angel - the man - standing directly in front of him, who had spent the last six thousand years feeling guilty about having lunch with a demon every now and then.

Time remembered that it should be running, and Crowley smiled. “Really? We could do it again, then. Sometime?”

“I’d love to,” Aziraphale replied.

 _It’ll work better this way_ , Adam had said.

 

* * *

 

 

1He knew more than most humans, of course, but compared to the angel, Crowley’s knowledge about books was a grocery list while Aziraphale’s was the freaking Holy Bible. Or Atlas Shrugged.[return to text]

2If Crowley wouldn’t have been so entirely distracted by the simple fact that he was in the same room as Aziraphale, he might have noticed that he was being confronted with exactly the same picture he’d seen in the magazine. He wouldn’t have found that odd at all.  
[return to text]

3He'd never eaten Indian before, but he'd watched Aziraphale enjoy it many times, and Aziraphale usually had good taste in food.[return to text]

4"I'm so sorry about your car," Aziraphale told him quietly. "I know how… important it was to you."  
"S'was just a car," Crowley mumbled and rested his head on Aziraphale's soft shoulder, closing his eyes. He was so incredibly tired. "Sorry about your books."  
"They were just books," Aziraphale said softly.  
He might have buried his nose in Crowley's hair, then. Crowley wasn't sure whether that was an actual memory or just… wishful thinking.  
[return to text]

5One time he’d eaten too much and experienced retching again, and since then he was very, very careful. Eating was weird.[return to text]


	4. Chapter 4

When Crowley drove to Soho again a week later, there was a car parking in his usual spot directly in front of the bookshop. It was a blue Beetle, and it was stuffed to the brim with boxes, which were stuffed to the brim with books. The car door was wide open.

Crowley stood there for a moment, staring at it all and frowning, then turned to walk into the bookshop. Which turned out to be impossible, because someone was currently trying to walk _out_ of it. A neat brown dress shoe tried to keep the door open because the arms were busy holding another box, above which a bit of white-blond hair was visible.

Crowley huffed and hurried to the door to hold it open for Aziraphale, who almost dropped the box in surprise.

“S’just me,” Crowley said. “What the hell is going on here?”

Aziraphale adjusted his grip on the box and peered over the edge of it at Crowley. His face was reddened, but he managed a smile. “Oh, hello. I’m just -” The bottom of the box chose this very moment to give in, resulting in a lot of books dropping on the floor _and_ on their feet. “Oh dear -”

“So many books in a cardboard box? Really?”

“Oh, do be quiet, you,” Aziraphale told him. 

He’d already crouched to pick up his precious books again, worried eyes flickering over the bindings to make sure that they were alright. They seemed to be, and they also didn’t look _that_ old and valuable. Crowley bent down to help gather them up again. They both had their arms full in the end.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, grunting softly as he tried not to let the books fall again. “If you could -”

“To the car?” Crowley asked, wary.

Aziraphale gave him a relieved smile and nodded, already carrying his books over. He leaned into the car and ended up dropping half of them while trying to store them away. “Goodness,” he muttered, annoyed, picking up the books and throwing the first two rather carelessly into the back of the car. He was gentler with the others. Probably felt bad.

“Are you moving?” Crowley asked, coming to stand behind the former angel. He tried to sound casual, but it came out a little pressed, anyway. Hopefully Aziraphale would blame that on Crowley’s having his hands full of weighty tomes. 

“Moving?” Aziraphale managed to hit his head on the roof of the car when he straightened up again. “Why would I be moving?”

“How would I know? Certainly looks like it.” 

Aziraphale took two books out of Crowley’s arm and added them to those in the car. “No, I’m not moving. I’ll be on the book fair.”

“The book fair,” Crowley echoed blankly.

“Yes,” came Aziraphale’s slightly muffled voice out of the Beetle. He’d taken another few books and, judging by the sounds that had followed, they’d promptly fallen on the car floor. “At the Olympia? Surely you’ve heard.”

“Uh, sure."[1]

Aziraphale emerged again when all books were (more or less) safely tucked away. He let out a breath and rested his arm on the car of the Beetle, looking at Crowley. He seemed excited now, if a little stressed out. His movements all fuzzy at the edges. “It starts on Thursday,” it was Wednesday, “and I still have to get all my books over.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“Ah, well, not quite. But still, I’ve been driving around all day.”

Crowley found himself unable to stop staring. “You - you _drive?_ ”

Aziraphale blinked. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I?”

“This is _your_ car?”

“Yes, it is,” Aziraphale confirmed, giving the Beetle a gentle pat. “I don’t drive it all too often, I’m afraid. I prefer to use the tube.”

"The tube," Crowley said. "Yeah, that's - uh. Reasonable."

"Is it?" Aziraphale smiled at him. Crowley wasn't quite sure whether he was being made fun of or not.

He decided to change the topic. "It's noon."

"Yes, I noticed." Aziraphale glanced at his pocket watch, anyway.

"The shop's closed?" Crowley asked.

"Until next Tuesday, yes." Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, then added, his tone tentative, "Did you… come by to buy something, or…?"

"No." Crowley hid his hands in his pockets. "I thought we could have lunch. Or something. But you're obviously busy, so -"

"No no no, I'm not," Aziraphale interrupted him hurriedly, before Crowley could turn away. "I mean, I _am_ , but I did plan to have a lunch break. So we could… well, have lunch."

"Yes?"

"Yes." The former angel pursed his lips, thinking, then said, "There is this restaurant near the Olympia I've been wanting to try."

Crowley nodded. "Yeah, sure, sounds - great."

"Alright," Aziraphale said lightly, beaming. "Would you like to drive with me? We could also meet there, of course -"

"I'll drive with you," Crowley hurried to say, because, really? Aziraphale driving a car? _That_ Crowley needed to see. Aziraphale had insisted a few times that he knew how to drive, but he’d never proven it, so Crowley had never quite believed him.

This would be fun.

 

*

 

It wasn’t fun. It was absolutely _nerve-jangling_.

The Beetle made weird noises whenever Aziraphale changed gears, and those noises were accompanied by the noises _Aziraphale_ made, which were mostly something along the lines of “oh dear” or “gracious me”, or just soft sounds of confusion and/or distress. Crowley would have found that incredibly amusing if he hadn’t been a), really fucking nervous, and b), going absolutely _mad_ because they were moving so incredibly _slowly._

Okay, fine. They weren’t moving that slowly at all, but Crowley had never cared much for speed limits. Aziraphale, however, had _invented_ speed limits and therefore always cared quite a lot for them. That hadn’t changed, apparently.

“Look,” Crowley said after some time, when they hadn’t even left Soho yet. He had a box with books on his lap, and his chin was propped on his hand as he narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. “If you don’t drive a _little bit_ faster, lunchtime will be long over when we arrive at the Olympia.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Aziraphale chided, switching on the wipers instead of the indicator for the second time. “I’m driving just as fast as I’m allowed to drive, we’ll be there soon enough. How do I -”

Crowley reached over with a sigh and switched the wipers off again. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a flustered smile before looking at the road again. “I’m sorry. As I said, I don’t, ah. Drive that often.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” Crowley drawled. 

The Beetle chose this moment to make a particular disturbing sound, causing them both to wince. 

“Maybe I should have someone take a look at this,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Maybe? The car’s dying.”

“It’s not _dying_.”

“It’s sick.”

“It’s a _car_ , Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley’s hand dropped on the cardboard box when he jerked his head to look at the other man. “ _Mr_. Crowley? Seriously?”

“You haven’t told me your first name,” Aziraphale defended himself, abashed. “And I can hardly -”

“Please, just -” Crowley made himself look away. “Just Crowley is fine.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale looked at him skeptically, but after a moment his expression softened. “Alright, then.” A pause. “What _is_ your first name, though?”

“Anthony,” Crowley replied. “The whole name’s Anthony J.  Crowley, if you must know.”

Aziraphale hummed. “That’s a lovely name. What does the J stand for?”

Crowley looked at him, raising a brow, and out of the corner of his eye he saw - “Watch oUT FOR -”

Aziraphale flinched and slammed on the brakes, just in time. He’d almost hit an old lady who was carrying some grocery bags across the street. “Oh god,” he muttered, already rolling down the window and leaning out. “I’m so sorry, ma’am! Are you alright?”

Crowley slid down on his seat a bit and rubbed his forehead, pretending to be somewhere else. Behind them, people started to honk. The old lady was scolding Aziraphale quite loudly, the former angel looked absolutely devastated. Crowley took pity on him and leaned over Aziraphale far enough that he could bestow the woman with his most charming smile.

“Sorry, ma'am, he’s only had his licence for a week. And it’s my fault, really, I kept distracting him.”

Which didn’t seem to calm her at all. She looked positively scandalized and huffed and puffed a little, but at least she buggered off when a driver behind them shouted something rude at her.

“You can start driving again, you know,” Crowley told Aziraphale and dropped back into his own seat.

Aziraphale had blushed crimson, but he did manage to roll up the window and start the car at the same time. “Wonderful,” he said, exasperated. “Now she thinks that we were up to - something.”

“Something?” Crowley repeated, raising his brows at Aziraphale.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “So what? It’s not like we actually did anything scandalous. It’s her own fault if her mind went straight to the gutter.”

“Crowley!”

“There wouldn’t have been anything straight about it, of course.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

Yes, much better. Now that the bloody _Mr._ was gone, this was a whole lot easier. He looked out of the window again, grinning. “Keep your hair on, I’m just joking.”

Aziraphale huffed. His cheeks were still red. Crowley changed his mind; this _was_ fun.

“What about you, huh?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“What am I supposed to call you?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale made, taken aback. “Everybody just calls me Mr. Fell, usually, but -”

“That’s a tad to formal.”

“Right.” Aziraphale frowned, pensive, then shrugged. “Zacharias would be fine, I suppose.”

“Zacharias,” Crowley echoed, unable to keep from scoffing. This was entirely wrong.

Aziraphale deflated. “You don’t like it? I always preferred it over Adam.”

Crowley sighed. “They’re both, uh. Pretty. Just -”

“Yes?”

“Dunno. What about Az?”

“ _Az_?”

“Yeah. Can I call you that?”

Aziraphale thought about it for a long moment, then slowly said, “Not sure if it fits, but… Yes, if you like.”

Az, then. That could work.

 

*

 

“I would hate to keep you from anything,” Aziraphale said, his hands on his hips as he looked at Crowley. 

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Crowley assured him for the second time. “I’ve got some time left, I can help you carry your stuff inside.”

They had eaten in a cozy little restaurant near Holland Park, where they’d also gone for a stroll after lunch. Now, they had just returned to Aziraphale’s dying car, and the book seller was stubbornly refusing letting Crowley help him with his many books. They needed to be transported the last bit into the Olympia, where Aziraphale still had to set up everything for the book fair.

“Really,” Crowley said. “It’s no matter. I mean, if you’d like me to go, I -”

“No,” Aziraphale hurried to say. “No, that’s not it. I had fun. I just - I don’t mean to be rude, but I do wonder if you have nothing else to do.”

Crowley laughed. “That’s a bit rude, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“S’fine.” Crowley gestured at the car. “Come on, just open it and I’ll help you. I’ll also tell you what I’m up to when I’m not pestering you, if you want.”

“You’re not pestering me,” Aziraphale told him with a small smile, and opened the car.

Crowley guessed that he had about ten minutes to come up with an answer that at least sort of made sense.

The thing was, he didn’t actually do anything else except pestering Aziraphale. He liked pestering Aziraphale. They weren’t yet real friends again, probably, but Crowley thought that they were on a good way. But Aziraphale still didn’t remember, obviously, and _of course_ he’d want to know about Crowley eventually - and Crowley could hardly tell him the truth now, could he? Aziraphale would think him insane.

Unfortunately, Crowley didn’t have a lot to say about himself. He didn’t have a job. Adam had not given him one. He _had_ found that he had a bank account - a proper one, even, not miracled into existence - and that there was quite a lot of money on it. Crowley knew that he’d gathered most of that money by acquiring stocks at the right times, even though he couldn’t actually remember every acquiring stocks. Also Adam’s work, probably, even though Crowley wasn’t sure why an eleven year old, even when he’d been the Antichrist,  knew about stocks at all. But, anyway, the money was enough to pay his bills - because he _had_ to pay bills now, apparently, which was a real shame - for at least a year or two, maybe even longer. Still, Crowley knew that he probably wouldn’t get around getting a job someday, even though the mere thought was very annoying.

But, for now, he really didn’t have anything proper to say. And that wouldn’t do, so he had to come up with something, and since he was - had been - a demon, that should have been easy. He should've been good at lying. And he'd been, most of the time; humans were so ridiculously easy to fool. But Aziraphale? Aziraphale was many things, but not stupid, and sometimes Crowley had thought that the angel could smell a lie ten miles against the wind.

Crowley just had to keep the lies few, then.

“I have a law degree,” was what he said, when they sat on boxes full of books in a hall full of books, which didn’t all belong to Aziraphale. It wasn’t a lie.[2] “But I, uh. I quit my last job. Well, actually I was fired. A bit of both, maybe.”

“Oh”, Aziraphale said. He’d gotten two cups of tea for them from somewhere; judging by the taste a vending machine. “I’m sorry. May I ask - I mean, did anything happen?"

“Ah, nothing much, really.” Which was a lie. “I didn't really enjoy it.” Which was not a lie.

Somehow, that made Aziraphale smile. "Yes, I… I have to admit that I can't really imagine it. You as a lawyer, I mean."

"No?" Crowley grinned and leaned back, resting his arm on the table they were sitting behind. "I was really good at it, I'll have you know. Or could have been, anyway."

"I can imagine _that_ ," Aziraphale said, "but not - well, as you said. I can't imagine you enjoying it, not really."

"Is that your sixth sense thingy at it again?"

"It might just be," Aziraphale said, flippant, and sipped his tea. He made a face. "My, this is awful. We should have proper tea sometime."

"Yeah?"

Aziraphale nodded decidedly. "Yes. I assure you, my tea is better than this."

"Well, that's not much of a feat, this stuff's nasty. I'd be willing to let you prove your tea-making skills, though."

"Lovely," Aziraphale said, sounding like he meant it. He didn't manage to hold Crowley's gaze, but he did smile. Then he suddenly perked up, hands tapping the pockets of both his cardigan and trousers. 

"You looking for something?" Crowley asked, watched the other's antics with an amusedly quirked brow.

"My phone," Aziraphale mumbled, distant, then turned to take his coat from where he'd thrown it over some boxes. "Ah! Here it is. Would you - I mean."

Crowley blinked. He looked at the phone in Aziraphale's hand - an outdated model that probably still passed as a smartphone, but only barely - and at Aziraphale's earnest eyes and then back at the phone.

He kept his tone carefully blank. "Are you asking me for my number?" 

Aziraphale blinked right back at him. "Yes? I just thought - I forgot to ask, last time."

"You actually _use_ this?"

"Obviously," Aziraphale said, frowning. "First the car, now this, I do wonder why you keep being so surprised about -"

"It's just so old, is all," Crowley said quickly, snatching the phone from Aziraphale's hand. It was already unlocked. "Your car's dying of old age already, and -"

"My car is _not_ dying."

"- your phone doesn't look much better, to be honest." 

"I'm wondering whether I want to have your number at all."

"Too late," Crowley said, handing back the phone. 

 _Crowley_ was now one of twelve entries in Aziraphale's contacts. The others were mostly last names, or people like _Debbie_ , who Crowley remembered to be Aziraphale's manicurist, or _Jamie_ , his barber. It was oddly comforting that that hadn't changed.

"Thank you," Aziraphale said, sliding his phone into the pocket of his cardigan. "Well, then. I suppose I should… start setting things up."

"Yeah, right," Crowley said. He knew Aziraphale well enough to take that as his cue to leave; Aziraphale wanted to be left alone with his books. Crowley took his own coat and stood up, then hesitated. "We'll, uh. We'll hear from each other then, yes?"

"Yes," Aziraphale promised.

 

*

 

_Hello? 8:13 PM _

Az? 8:19 PM

_Yes! Hello! 8:25 PM _

Hey 8:26 PM

_It will take some time getting used_

_to that name, I think. 8:31 PM _

I could always call you Zach instead 8:32 PM

_Don't you dare! 8:36 PM _

 

*

 

Crowley dropped onto the sofa and needed about ten minutes to find a comfortable position. Things like that sucked, now that he couldn’t just miracle comfortability into existence anymore. The problem was that his sofa had always served aesthetic purposes; he hadn’t wanted it to be _cozy._ The only cozy thing in his flat was his bed, because he’d had more than enough uncozy beds in his long life - people used to sleep on stones, you know - and didn’t want any more of that. But sofas? Crowley thought he hadn’t ever even _sat_ on this sofa of his. If he wanted to sit on a comfortable sofa, he visited a certain bookshop. Well, _had_ visited. He could hardly do that now; “Az” would most likely consider that rather rude.

Crowley needed a new sofa. That was the inevitable conclusion that came from sitting on a sleek and modern monster that somehow managed to make leather uncomfortable to sit on. Before the whole apocalypse thing, Crowley would have just convinced the sofa to change into something nicer, but now? How did normal people get new sofas? How did they get sofas _up the stairs_?

Crowley huffed and placed his legs on the equally sleek and modern sofa table. He’d already brought the telly from his office into the living room, because he’d found that his desk chair was even more uncomfortable than the sofa. He switched it on and zapped through the channels until he found something that at least remotely interested him. He’d made some kind of stew for dinner and when he took a first spoonful, it tasted just as awful as he expected. He had never been good at or even interested in cooking; actually, he’d never even tried. He had watched Aziraphale cook, once. Eternities ago.

Music came out of nowhere, and for a moment Crowley was confused. But then Freddie started singing, _I want to break free ~_

And Crowley realized that it wasn’t coming out of nowhere, but from his mobile, which was ringing. It shouldn’t have been a surprise - it had rung a few times the last days -, but somehow it still was. Crowley took the call and put Aziraphale on speaker.

“Hullo.”

“Hello,” Aziraphale replied. He sounded tired. “Did you know that Charles Dickens was Jack the Ripper?”

Crowley blinked. “What?”

“Yes. He went insane in his old age and wanted to write a crime novel based on real events. But there were no real events that piqued his interest, so he, ah, created some himself.”

“Charles? A crime novel?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he die in - er. In the seventies?”

“1870, yes.”

“And the Ripper thing was 1888.”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Crowley said, searching for the remote and finding that he was sitting on it. “So it was Dickens’ ghost, then.”

“Probably.”

Crowley muted the telly. “And who told you that lovely story?”

“A customer,” Aziraphale answered, sighing. “He came in today - ignored both the sign at the door and my saying that we were closed - and wanted to have a copy of _Oliver Twist_.”

“Didn’t you take all your Dickens stuff to the bookfair?” Crowley remembered seeing them there, at least. He’d visited the bookfair only to visit Aziraphale’s booth, and he’d also helped getting the books Aziraphale hadn’t sold back to Soho. Aziraphale would open the shop tomorrow, so he’d probably spent the whole day reshelving books.

“Most of it, yes,” Aziraphale said. “They were still in their boxes at that point, but I relented and dug out _Oliver_ for him, and then he started telling me about that nice little theory of his. I had to listen to him for twenty minutes.”

Crowley snorted. “Why didn’t you just tell him to piss off?”

“I tried!” Aziraphale insisted. “Well, in a more polite way.”

“Politeness doesn’t get you very far with conspiracy theorists.”

“Yes, so I noticed.” A pause. “He became a little rude when he finally understood that I didn’t take him all too seriously. But at least he bought the book.”

“That’s good, then,” Crowley muttered. The fact that Aziraphale was now _happy_ when someone bought his books was still… odd. Disturbing, actually. But that was how reality was now, and Crowley had to deal with it. He just hoped that Aziraphale wouldn’t be absolutely devastated should he ever remember. Which was not likely.

“Anywho,” Aziraphale said, suddenly nervous again. Maybe he’d picked up Crowley’s unsettled tone. “I have to admit, I’m glad the fair is over. It paid off, but -” He was cut off by some muffled noises that sounded suspiciously like books falling down. “Oh dear, not again.”

“Az,” Crowley said, having to stop himself from adding _-iraphale_ . He would get used to that in time. “Are you _still_ reshelving books?”

There was a guilty pause, then Aziraphale said, “Maybe?”

“It’s eleven PM. Shouldn’t you be done by now?"

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “And I thought I was, but then I noticed that I put Poe in the place of Pratchett, and -”

“You’re clearly too tired.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed again. “But I want to open tomorrow morning, after all, and I can’t have these boxes still standing around. People could trip over them.”

“You worry too much.”

“That’s not the point. I have to - ah, _bugger._ ”

Crowley had to stifle a laugh. “See, you cursed, I’d take that as a sign to go to bed.” More dull sounds, followed by some murmured words Crowley didn’t quite understand. “You okay there?”

“This shelf,” Aziraphale said, very offended, “ _keeps breaking._ ”

“Breaking?”

Aziraphale offered no further information, and Crowley thought it wise to change the topic.

“Let’s do dinner,” he said, and there was a last shocked _thud_ that announced another book dropping to the floor.

Silence, then, until Aziraphale said, “Pardon?”

“Dinner,” Crowley repeated. 

Aziraphale hesitated. “I already ate.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and poked around in his stew. “I’m not suggesting _now_ , genius. Tomorrow. Or next week, or - whenever you’re free.”

“Oh.”

That soft sound was the only answer Crowley got for a while. He spent a few long seconds listening to the faint sound of Aziraphale’s breaths, then asked, “You don’t want to?”

“No,” Aziraphale said at once. “I mean, _yes._ I do want to. I’m free tomorrow?”

“Great.” Crowley couldn’t keep from grinning. “I’ll pick you up at seven, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

1Crowley hadn't, in fact, heard.[return to text]

2He’d gotten several law degrees over the years, actually. The concept of law itself had been an invention of Aziraphale’s side, so naturally Crowley had had to mess the whole thing up a bit.  
[return to text]


	5. Chapter 5

There it was, the bowtie.

Crowley's brows shot up at the sight, and he didn't even try to hide his smirk. That didn't escape Aziraphale's attention; he was just locking the door of the bookshop when he caught Crowley looking at his collar. His hand immediately flew up to adjust the bowtie, even though there was nothing whatsoever to adjust. The look he gave Crowley was challenging.

"Looks good," Crowley said. He wanted to add that Aziraphale should wear it more often, but then he was distracted by Aziraphale's smile and the fact that he was being looked over from head to toe - quickly, but not all too subtly.

"You look rather nice yourself," Aziraphale told him lightly, still smiling, still blushing a little, and Crowley didn't really know what to say to that. 

He was just glad that he wasn't the type to blush.

Aziraphale seemed pleased, even as he looked away to avoid Crowley’s gaze. “You wanted to drive, yes?”

“Er, yup.” Crowley led the way to the Bentley, which he had parked, as always, directly in front of the bookshop.

“I don’t think you're allowed to park here,” Aziraphale pointed out, but Crowley just rolled his eyes and opened the passenger door for him.

“Just get in, a-” He bit down on the _angel_ just in time. How did you break a habit that you’d had for six thousand years?

“I thought we had agreed on 'Az',” Aziraphale said as he slid into the car, amused.

“We have,” Crowley confirmed as he started the car. “Just messing around a bit.”

Aziraphale gave him an odd look, but let it go. "This is nice," he said.

"Huh?"

"Your car," Aziraphale clarified. "I like it."

Crowley's grip on the wheel tightened. "You do?"

"It fits you," Aziraphale said with an approving nod. "In very good condition, too. How long have you had it?"

"Uh. Well, er." _Damn Adam_ , Crowley thought, _Damn Adam for making me have to lie to him_. "My grandfather bought it, and then my father inherited it, and now - er, now it's mine."

"Oh, I see. That's lovely. So your father -" He broke off, and suddenly Crowley was catapulted a few weeks into the past by a single sentence: “Crowley, you can’t do ninety miles per hour in central London!”

Crowley's breath stuttered, but after one or two or five seconds he pulled himself together and grinned at Aziraphale, who was holding on to the passenger door for dear life. “Why not?”

“You’ll get us killed!” Aziraphale, indignant and most definitely worried, and Crowley already wanted to scoff, but -

Oh. That was actually a valid point now, wasn't it?

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered and slowed down a bit.

Aziraphale huffed. He relaxed a little, but only until he noticed that Crowley was looking more at him than at anything else. “Watch the road,” Aziraphale told him sternly.

Crowley had to stifle a smile as he complied.

When they parked close to the restaurant Crowley had chosen - not directly in front of, mind you, Aziraphale had refused to let Crowley park the car where it wasn’t allowed to be - Aziraphale had more or less calmed down. He was chattering away about the book fair, even though he’d already told Crowley everything about it, and Crowley listened and made sure to make interested noises at the right times.

Before they got out of the car, Crowley turned his upper body towards his friend - they _were_ friends now, weren’t they? - and put his arm over the backrest of his seat. “Az,” he said. “I have to ask you a very important question.”

Aziraphale ceased his rambling and blinked at him, eyes wide and surprised. “Oh - well. Alright?”

“Do you know anything about _The Velvet Underground_?”

Aziraphale looked at him rather blankly. “Velvet…?”

“Underground,” Crowley finished. “It’s a band.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Bebop, yes? I think I've heard of it. Not really my style, but - Crowley? Why are you laughing?"

 

*

 

There had always been, Crowley thought, something oddly satisfying about watching Aziraphale enjoy a good meal. He was glad that hadn't changed. 

They had gone out for lunch quite a few times over the last weeks, but this was the first[1] time that it was dinner, and somehow that felt a little more… as if it really mattered, maybe. Not that the lunches hadn't mattered - every moment spent with Aziraphale mattered, _so much_ \- but this was a step forward, into what Crowley hoped was the right direction. He felt a little less nervous tonight, because Aziraphale kept chattering away about everything and nothing and he was wearing his ridiculous bowtie and an equally ridiculous cream-coloured tartan suit and Crowley couldn't possibly adore him more.

 _This is how it should be_ , Crowley thought when he made Aziraphale laugh for the sixth time - he'd counted - this evening, and he thought it again when Aziraphale let himself be tempted to dessert, and then a third time when they eventually stepped out of the restaurant and night had already settled over London, deep and uncharacteristically quiet, but not at all dark.

It felt normal, all of this. They had spent a million other evenings like this before. There were no talks about Above or Below this time, though, and it also wasn't an Arrangement any longer. Crowley had to watch what he said, yes, and sometimes he would slip and make Aziraphale give him an odd look, and that _hurt_ , it always - constantly - hurt, but what was he supposed to do?

 _This is how it should be_ , he told himself firmly. 

It was the only way _this_ could exist at the moment, and it wasn't bad. It wasn't bad at all.

"Tonight was lovely," Aziraphale said earnestly when the Bentley rolled to a halt in front of the bookshop. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Crowley drawled, his grin crooked.

Aziraphale smiled. "Well, I… I'll better be off then."

Crowley nodded. Another moment passed, then Aziraphale sighed and reached out to pat Crowley's arm. Crowley threw a slightly confused smile at him, and Aziraphale smiled back,  then left. Crowley waited until he'd disappeared into the bookshop before he drove away.

 

*

 

Weeks passed[2] like that. They met for lunch every few days, went out for dinner once or twice, sometimes they had tea in Aziraphale's bookshop. One time, just a few days after their first dinner, Aziraphale had made big and pretty enough eyes - how he'd managed that over the phone was still a mystery - to convince Crowley to help him replace the old shelves in the bookshop, which had led to an awful afternoon of unpronounceable Swedish names and missing screws and flippant words.[3] That had been altogether unpleasant, but this?

This was lovely.

They had gone to see _Company_ together, because somehow Aziraphale claimed he had never seen it live, even though he'd been there at the premiere in 1970. Of course, he didn't remember that, so Crowley had bought some tickets and went to the bookshop, plastering them to the outside of the window and waving as soon as Aziraphale looked in his direction.

The show had been nice, mostly because Aziraphale had obviously been enjoying himself. He still liked Sondheim, apparently. They had had dinner after and were now walking back to the bookshop. Somehow, Aziraphale's hand had found its way to Crowley's arm when they had crossed the first street, and he hadn't let go so far. Crowley listened to his friend talking about the restaurant they'd tried, but mostly he just concentrated on the warmth of Aziraphale's hands, the sound of his voice, the accordance of their steps. He only realized that they had reached the bookshop when Aziraphale made them stop walking.

“Well,” he said, smiling at Crowley, who blinked back at him.

“Well,” Crowley echoed.

"I don't suppose you would like to come inside?"

And just like that, the world froze again. Funny how Aziraphale always managed that.

One second.

 _(Come inside? Come_ inside _? For what, a drink - or - what does he_ mean _?)_

Two seconds.

 _(_ Don't suppose you _\- what was up with that, huh? Did that mean he hoped the answer would be_ no _, or what?  Does he -)_

Three seconds.

_(??????????)_

“Crowley?”

"Maybe not - not right now," Crowley got out in the end, still staring at Aziraphale, fully aware that he was most likely overreacting.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, and _fuck, is that disappointment?_ But then he squeezed Crowley’s arm before letting go and added, "Oh, that's fine, my dear. Maybe - maybe you could stop by for lunch soon, then? Or tea? I did promise you tea."

Crowley made some sort of humming sound that didn't actually mean anything, lips pressed together, and nodded. "Yes, sounds - sounds good."

"Alright," Aziraphale said, his tone light. "Well, I - I'll see you soon, then?"

Crowley was busy deciding if he should nod or make another "mh-hmm" sound or nod _and_ make a "mh-hmm" sound, so he realized it the split of a second too late when Aziraphale stood up on tiptoes, one hand on Crowley’s lapel. And Crowley neither nodded nor make any kind of sound, then, because the feeling of Aziraphale's lips brushing his cheek distracted him from deciding, and Aziraphale had already taken a step back again. He fumbled for his keyes and turned to the door, leaving a very confused and definitely not blushing Crowley behind.

Crowley stared after him, long enough that he was still there when Aziraphale slipped into the shop and looked over his shoulder through the window, back at Crowley. Naturally he caught Crowley looking, smiled and waved, apparently unbothered by the world-changing thing he'd just done. Crowley's feet took it as their cue to bring him to the Bentley, even though his brain was not entirely aware of the movements.

He almost crashed the car. Twice.

 

*

 

After a long phase of careful consideration, nearly too many bottles of wine and four unpleasant experiences that he was reasonably sure were called _panic attacks_ , Crowley came to the conclusion that they - Aziraphale and him - were dating.

Which was fine. Totally fine. He'd rushed out of his flat and fallen down the stairs because it was fine, and he hadn't been able to breathe because it was fine, and he had driven as far away from London as possible in one afternoon because it was fine. _He_ was fine. He was sitting in the Bentley in the middle of nowhere, the clouded sky darkening above him, and he wasn't panicking. Not at all.

Dating. 

That was what they'd been doing, these last weeks. Going out for lunch and dinner, sending dozens of texts back and forth each day, phone calls in the evenings. Was that dating? It was. At least Aziraphale seemed to think that. He'd wanted Crowley to _come inside_ , to - what? To _what_?

Crowley wondered what would have happened if he'd kissed the (goddamn former) angel, right then and there. If he'd just - grasped the ridiculous lapels of that ridiculous coat, pulled Aziraphale close and _kissed him_ , just like that. Aziraphale had kissed Crowley's cheek, hadn't he, so maybe - maybe that was what he had wanted? Or something along those lines, anyway?

It made sense. Sort of, at least. As idiotic as it was, Crowley hadn't really _thought_ about how this whole thing had to seem to Aziraphale. For Crowley, it had just been what they'd always been doing, with the exception that it was like everything took place in a horrible but oddly easy parallel universe in which his angel didn't remember the millennia they'd known each other. But that hadn't changed the fact that it had been Aziraphale and Crowley, always. Just them, together, because that was how it should be, that was what felt _right._ It had felt right, at least. It was starting to feel wrong at this very moment.

Crowley loved Aziraphale, of course. That was a fact. He'd accepted it eons ago, and it hadn't changed. Wouldn't change. He didn't adore Aziraphale any less just because he was human, not even because he had a phone and a car and was an actual book _seller_ now. Crowley loved him, and somehow he had thought that it would just continue like it had Before, with them meeting up regularly - maybe every few days instead of every few years, given that they didn't have as much time as they'd had anymore - and eating and drinking and talking. Just without the guilt Aziraphale had always felt, which was pleasant. Crowley hadn't expected them to become, well. _More._ He hadn’t expected this to become what he’d been dreaming about for fucking _six millennia_ , hadn’t thought that Aziraphale would even consider, let alone want it.

But, oh, Crowley wanted. He wanted very badly, and altogether far too much. Not that there was ever a _too much_ for a demon, but he wasn't a demon anymore after all, and technically he could want that former angel as much as he - you know, wanted. And of course Aziraphale thought that Crowley was, and Crowley was sure that Aziraphale would word it that way, _wooing_ him. And naturally he was right, because that _was_ what Crowley had been doing since the beginning of time. And, miracle of miracles, now that Above and Below weren't in the equation anymore, now that the world hadn't ended, now that he didn't _remember_ \- now it seemed like Aziraphale was totally, happily, eagerly fine with being wooed. Eager enough that he’d nearly made Crowley have a heart attack.

And that wasn't fair, was it?

No, not the heart attack bit. The _being fine with being wooed_ bit. Because Aziraphale did not remember, but Crowley did, and he knew that this - that this wasn't what the _angel_ would have wanted. The _angel_ hadn't ever wanted Crowley, not like this. As a friend, perhaps - and even that only reluctantly; he'd never been able to even _acknowledge_ that.

It wasn't fair. Nothing about this was.

Crowley's forehead met the wheel with a thud. He fumbled for the lever and rolled down the window, hoping that the fresh air would help him breathe.[4] He couldn't start panicking again. He had to decide what to do.

It wasn't like he had many options. He could leave Aziraphale alone, but he felt like that would be awful for both of them. Also, imagining this hell of a mortal life without Aziraphale made converting to catholicism look like fun. No, that simply wouldn't do. Then, Crowley could stop this whole dating business and make clear that they were _friends_ , nothing more, or he could… not stop it.

Actually.

He took a deep breath - apparently fresh air actually helped to clear a human's head; odd - and looked for his phone, hoping that he hadn't left it in the flat. He found that he was sitting on it. The light of the screen hurt his eyes, but a glance at the time calmed him a bit; it wasn't too late.

He called and put it on speaker, putting the phone on the passenger seat; his forehead was back on the wheel why now, fingers gripping it tight.

It didn't take at all long until Aziraphale picked up. "Hello?"

Crowley cleared his throat. "Hi."

"Oh, it's you," Aziraphale said, evidently happy, and maybe a tad relieved.

"I know for a fact that you've saved my number," Crowley replied. "My name should appear on the screen when I call, you know."

"I didn't look, I am reading."

Of course. "This not a good time, then?"

"No, of course it is. I'm glad you called, dear boy. How have you been?"

"Eh." Crowley closed his eyes. "Fine."

A pause, then, "We haven't heard from each other in a few days."

Four, in fact. Four days Crowley had spent being stunned but not entirely surprised by how quickly you could get addicted to getting several texts from a certain person each day. 

"Yeah," he said, vaguely. “Should’ve called. Or texted.”

“You or me?”

“Er. Both?”

Aziraphale hummed and Crowley heard something that sounded like a book being shut with a little more force than necessary. That sound immediately filled him with dread, because whenever Aziraphale abandoned a book for a conversation, it was bound to get serious. Which was really not what Crowley wanted, not now or at any other given moment, so -

“Is this because of what I offered the other night?” Aziraphale asked before Crowley could say something. His tone was careful, hesitant, but when Crowley didn’t reply for a moment, he started to ramble. “I’d like you to know that I - I didn’t mean to pressure you in any way, of course not, and I’m deeply sorry if I was too, ah, forward. I don’t even know why I asked, I didn’t have anything _specific_ in mind, I simply… I simply would have liked to spend some more time with you, you see? But of course you had every right to -”

“Az. Shut it.”

Aziraphale actually stopped talking. Crowley was so surprised about that he forgot what he’d wanted to say. Not that he’d _known_ what to say.

“Well?” Aziraphale prompted after a moment, nervous.

“I was just surprised, is all,” Crowley said to the wheel. “And I wasn’t sure what you, you know. Wanted.”

“I’m not at all sure what _you_ want either, my dear.”

Oh yes, well. Tough question. Crowley wanted a lot of things - he kept a list, somewhere in the back of his mind, and every point of the list had the name _Aziraphale_ in it. He briefly contemplated just telling his friend that, but… He had to keep in mind that, as far as Aziraphale knew, they’d met for the first time just a few weeks ago. Might be too early for confessing how bloody addicted Crowley was. 

“I thought,” Aziraphale filled the silence after a moment, “well, I - I thought we were…”

“Dating?”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Hm?”

“We are. I mean, I think we are. If you’re okay with it -”

“Oh, I am, don’t worry about that. Are you -”

“Yes, I - yes.”

“Well. Jolly good, then.”

Crowley straightened and looked out of the front window. The clouds seemed to hang too low in the dark sky, too close to earth. “I would’ve liked to stay.”

Aziraphale let out a breath. A relieved one, maybe. “Why didn’t you?”

“Dunno.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Look,” he said then, very gently, “if you are merely not interested in the - the physical aspects of - well, you know what I mean. That would be completely fine.”

Crowley stayed silent. His brain was still busy catching up with what Aziraphale had just implied.”

“Crowley? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said softly. “I just - I’m not. Sure if - I mean, are _you_ interested in -”

Aziraphale didn’t even need to think about it for very long, it seemed. “Yes, dear,” he said. “I’m interested, very much so, but - I would understand it, of course, if you weren’t. Or if you just… weren't interested in _me_ , specifically.” The pause that followed sounded more hesitant, almost uncertain. “I’m aware that I am quite a bit older than you, my dear, so -”

Crowley wasn’t about to let Aziraphale finish that sentence. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Pardon?”

“Ngk. This has - _nothing_ to do with age. Really.” 

Because, _really_. Age! Hell, Aziraphale wasn’t actually worrying about _age,_ was he? They’d both been there since the Beginning, they were literally the oldest beings on this entire fucking planet.

But, of course, Aziraphale didn’t know that. For him, they were about fifteen years apart in age, and if that actually mattered to him…

“I mean it,” Crowley added, a bit softer now. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale agreed, a little amused. “What is it, then?”

“Hm?”

Aziraphale gave a soft sigh. “I’ll be honest with you now, darling, please tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said again, this time hung up on the word _darling_. 

“When I asked you to stay,” Aziraphale began, “while I didn’t really _plan_ on, ah, taking you to bed -”

Crowley was going to die. Right now and here, in the middle of nowhere.

“- I _did_ hope that we might at least… kiss? But I’m not blind, my dear, I can tell that you wouldn’t be entirely comfortable with that. It’s not just that you seem _nervous_ , it’s almost like… I’m not sure. I’d be very thankful if you could tell me, so I would know how to… well. If there are things I should rather avoid, or -”

“Stop,” Crowley said, too sharp. “Stop, please, I -”

Aziraphale sounded incredibly concerned. “Crowley? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley got out. “It’s just - I don’t know. Complicated, okay?”

“Okay,” Aziraphale echoed, tone soothing. “I see.” A pause, then, “But you are not… technically _opposed_ to… No, let me try again. Can you tell me if you would like this - _us_ \- to remain… well, not exactly platonic, maybe, but - non-sexual? Is that a fitting term? I’m not sure.”

“I know what you mean,” Crowley said, not knowing whether to be amused or exasperated by Aziraphale’s babbling. “And no, I - I mean, I’d be fine with it. Eventually. I think. With us getting…”

Nope. No idea how to say that.

“... Intimate?” Aziraphale suggested after a moment. Crowley made a confirming sound, and Aziraphale added, “So, do you count kissing among that, too? Because I’d really like to kiss you.”

Crowley’s forehead met the wheel again. “You’re killing me,” he muttered.

“Am I? I’m sorry. But would you -”

“Yes, yes, _fine._ I’d be fine with it. Kissing. Why are we talking about this?”

“Because I’m worried,” Aziraphale informed him kindly. “And because I think we would both feel better if we knew what to expect.”

“Hmph.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, so very gently. “There’s no rush. If you want to take things slow, we can take our time. However long you need. And if the problem - not that it _is_ a problem, mind you - lies somewhere else entirely, you can talk to me about it. Always.”

“You’re too kind,” Crowley murmured. He intended it to sound like a joke, but he meant it with every fibre of his being.

“Ah, no. I’m afraid I am being rather selfish.” Aziraphale chuckled, then added, his tone soft, “I do like you, Anthony. Very much so.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I mean. Me too. You...”

Aziraphale waited patiently for a moment, giving Crowley the chance to try and finish saying whatever he’d wanted to say - like hell Crowley knew -, but when it got clear that Crowley wouldn’t, Aziraphale broke the silence again. “There’s an exhibit at the Tate I’ve been meaning to visit. It runs out in a few weeks, so… If you’d like…?”

“Yes,” Crowley said quickly. “Yeah, sure. Uh. When the shop’s closed, then, right? You need to - do the selling and stuff.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale sounded amused. “Sunday?”

“Yes, sounds good. Awesome.”

He started the car. It took only a few seconds until Aziraphale said, “Are you _driving_?”

“Yes. I mean, wasn’t until now, but -”

“You shouldn’t use the phone while driving, Crowley, really -”

“You’re on speaker, Az, c’mon.”

“It’s dangerous!” Aziraphale insisted. “You’re distracted -”

“Always am when talking to you,” Crowley cut him off. “S’not like I’m not used to it.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, somewhere between testy and pleased. That combination shouldn’t have been possible, but for him it was. “You can always call me back when you’re home again.”

And he hung up.

Crowley snorted and veered around. It would take a few hours to reach London, but that was fine. He felt better now. A bit. He had just missed his last chance to do the right thing, after all. 

That shouldn’t surprise anyone.

 

* * *

 

 

1 Not the first first, of course. Only the first since the Almostageddon. The real first one had taken in place a few thousand years ago, in Rome.[return to text]

2 Strange, the passage of time. Crowley had never paid much attention to it; days had always blurred into weeks into years into decades into centuries. Now he was aware of every single hour that passed, and every one of them he didn’t spend with Aziraphale seemed like a wasted one.[return to text]

3 What had Crowley thought, feeding Ingvar Kamprad the idea to found that bloody furniture shop? It was a surprise that they hadn’t been any wars because of a Billy shelf. Yet.[return to text]

4 Human bodies are ridiculous. As if oxygen is that important, really. [return to text]


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because I won't be home until next week! Just wanted to say, thank you so much for all the comments, you're all amazing. ❤
> 
> Also, I keep updating the tags as I go, so keep an eye on them!

Crowley turned the flower in his hands, thinking about how he still had time to throw it into the nearest bin. He was sitting on the stairs that led up to the Tate Britain, waiting for Aziraphale who was running a little late. He had texted Crowley some time earlier to let him know that he was on his way and "awfully sorry for the wait". Crowley wasn't sure what was up - Aziraphale had never been _not_ on time, not once in thousands of years - and he was starting to get a little worried. He was nervous enough as it was; this waiting didn't make it any better.

It got better when Aziraphale came into sight. It started to get _good_ when Aziraphale beamed and waved as soon as he spotted Crowley. The not-anymore-demon stood up and Aziraphale rushed up the stairs to meet him, breathless, but still smiling.

"I'm so sorry," he began. "I was held up - poor Elsie from the café around the corner had a falling-out with her parents, again, and she was already sitting in front of the shop when I came downstairs, so I had to - oh. _Oh,_ I - thank you."

Crowley hummed and didn't meet Aziraphale's eyes. He had fastened the carnation to the buttonhole of his friend's coat, and Aziraphale looked down at it like he didn't really understand what was going on. He was blushing.

"It's lovely," he said, hand flying up to touch the white blossom, as if to check if it was real. "My favourite. How did you know?"

"Eh." Crowley shrugged and shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Lucky guess."

Aziraphale looked up and smiled, his eyes warm. "Thank you," he said again. "That's very… kind."

Crowley huffs. "I'm not _kind._ "

Aziraphale raised a brow. 

"Am not!"

"Alright. Sweet, then."

Crowley glowered at him. "I'm gonna take the flower back again."

"Oh, no, you won't," Aziraphale told him sternly and took hold of Crowley's arm, leading him up the stairs. "It's mine now, and I will keep and treasure it."

"It's a flower, Az, not a pet."

"Still."  

"It'll wither soon."

"So?"

They reached the entrance and Aziraphale began steering them to the ticket booths, but Crowley stopped him. "Already got us tickets," he said, fishing them out of his pocket.    

"Oh, you shouldn't have," Aziraphale said, exasperated. "You already paid the last time we went out, it's -" The look Crowley gave him made Aziraphale falter. His hands were fidgeting. "I didn't even tell you what exhibition I wanted to see," he added a little lamely.

"Uh." Crowley held up the tickets, showing them to his friend. "The van Gogh one, right?"

Aziraphale looked at the tickets, then back at Crowley, blinking slowly. "Yes," he said, stunned enough that he stopped worrying about money. That was good; Aziraphale worried about money far too often nowadays.

"Thought so,” Crowley said. “C’mon, don’t look at me like that, it really wasn’t hard to guess. You like van Gogh, don’t you?”

“I do,” Aziraphale said, but it didn’t seem like he was actually thinking about the artist at the moment, because a second later he muttered, “I’m starting to think that I am not the only one with some kind of sixth sense.”

“Nah. I’m sure yours is special.” Crowley felt like a change of topic was in order, so he said, “Tell me about Elsie, then.”

Aziraphale blinked, surprised, but then he started talking about the young waitress and her awful parents. He also did something else - he reached out for Crowley again, but didn’t link their arms this time. No, this time he took Crowley’s _hand_ , his grip careful and loose at first, but getting firmer when he was sure that Crowley wouldn’t pull away. And Crowley didn’t pull away. He didn’t even know how pulling away worked at this point; the thought alone was ridiculous. If Aziraphale wanted to hold hands, they would hold bloody hands, and Crowley would _not_ freak out over it. Or at least he wouldn’t show it externally.

He could breathe properly again after a few minutes, and then it was really quite nice. Or wait, no - big understatement; it was _perfect_. Aziraphale’s hand was warm and soft, trusting in a way it had never been before (Before), and Crowley basked in it all. He already feared the moment he would have to let go again.

Thankfully, Aziraphale didn’t seem to plan on letting go anytime soon. They strolled through the exhibition, hand in hand, and Aziraphale chattered happily as they walked. Well, not that happily at first, because he was really a bit worried about Elsie.[1] Crowley, however, was somehow soothed by the whole story, because it meant that lost humans still found their way to Aziraphale somehow, and that he still did his best to help them. Things like that had happened quite often, and Crowley was glad that they still did. Not that he had ever admitted it when he’d still been a demon, but he’d always enjoyed watching Aziraphale do his work. Of course, now and then Crowley had wanted to hit someone, because many humans also found Aziraphale odd, even off-putting, and they had voiced things like that on several occasions. But Aziraphale had never been bothered by that; had been amused by it, even. And he’d helped them anyway. He was so _kind_ to the humans, which distinguished him strongly from the other angels. And even now, when there weren’t any angels or demons anymore, Crowley was still in awe of it all.

The exhibition was nice. Crowley hadn’t known Vincent personally, but Aziraphale had - he’d always been found by the sad and lost artists, somehow - so Crowley told Aziraphale some of the stories _Aziraphale_ had told _him_ long ago. Aziraphale didn’t believe half of it, probably, but he listened well enough, his smile as lovely as ever.

They had lunch at the Rex Whistler, which Aziraphale seemed at first very hesitant, then completely giddy about. He hadn’t ever eaten here before, he said, and that was of course not true, but Crowley could hardly tell him that. Aziraphale was fascinated by the menu and discussed it with the waiter for a while - “I’ll take the same,” was all Crowley said to that -, but then he was more enthralled by the painted walls than by the wine list for a moment. Crowley took a look at it first; he already knew what Aziraphale would choose.

“You should have told me we would eat here,” Aziraphale whispered when he finally took the menu. “I would have worn something nicer.”

“You’re perfectly good as you are,” Crowley told him, lounging back in his chair. The cut of Aziraphale’s beige suit was a bit more modern than what Crowley was used to see on the angel, but that wasn’t necessarily bad. It was nice, actually; Aziraphale looked nice. Also, the light jumper he wore beneath the jacket was still tartan and hideous, so it was - and that was the most important part - still _Aziraphale_. 

Aziraphale, who was of course still fussing. “I would have at least worn a tie.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He didn’t really mourn the lack of a tie. It was unusual, yes - the fact that Aziraphale had even left his house without a tie was, quite frankly, a little disconcerting - but Crowley didn't mind. Aziraphale had left the first two buttons of his dress shirt open. Crowley looked at that patch of skin more often than he should. 

“You look lovely,” he said. “Stop worrying.”

Aziraphale flushed a little, showing that he was most definitely pleased to hear that - had been fishing for it, definitely. He finally concentrated on the wine list, but only for a moment, then he pressed it to his chest and looked back up at Crowley. “What wine do I like?”

Crowley raised a brow and accepted the challenge. “Third from bottom.”

Aziraphale blinked and glanced at the list, then frowned. “Oh, I didn’t even see that one,” he murmured. "Yes. That will do nicely.” He looked up again. "If I asked how you knew that, would I get a proper answer?”

“I’m good at guessing.”

“That is not a proper answer.”

“It so is.”

“I am not sure whether I should be charmed or worried,” Aziraphale said, but he did not seem that concerned. Well, he always had a air of concern around him, somehow, but he didn’t seem to be concerned about Crowley at the moment, at least. He told the waiter their choice of wine with a smile.

“Charmed,” Crowley said when the young man was gone again. “Definitely charmed.”

“Well, you could be a - a stalker, you know. Or something.”

“Mhh. An axe murderer.”

“For example, yes.”

Crowley wondered if this was a good time to announce that he’d once been a demon, and decided against it. “I’m nothing of that sort, promise.”

Aziraphale gave him a pointed look. “That is what an axe murderer would say.”

Crowley stared at him for a moment. “But you don’t actually think that, do you?”

“No, dear boy,” Aziraphale said and reached over the table to pat Crowley’s hand. “I do not.”

He changed the topic, then, commenting on the colourful walls, and Crowley let him. They talked about this and that, as they always did, and it was nice. Comfortable. Aziraphale insisted on paying, in a way that made arguing pointless, and then they took a stroll through the permanent exhibition of the museum. Crowley had seen it all a million times before and Aziraphale probably even more often, but since he remembered only about a dozen of all those visits, Crowley naturally indulged his friend.

It was raining when they left the museum, and they were holding hands again. Aziraphale had bought an umbrella in the giftshop, but he’d thrust it into Crowley’s hand because “you’re taller, darling”. They walked to Soho, even though Crowley had parked the Bentley close to the Tate. He didn’t mention that to Aziraphale, because walking meant that this wouldn’t be over for a few more minutes.

“So,” Aziraphale said when they arrived at the bookshop. “If I were to kiss you goodbye, would that be too forward?”

Naturally, Crowley stumbled, and the umbrella hit Aziraphale right in the face. It missed his eyes, thankfully, and he was laughing anyway, his hands on Crowley’s arm and upper body to help steadying him.

"I'm so sorry," he said. It was the most obvious lie he'd ever told, given that he was still laughing. "I didn't mean to shock you, dear, are you okay?"

Crowley spluttered, "I'm not shocked," and tried to regain his dignity by gathering up the umbrella and shielding Aziraphale from the rain. "I just - you can't just - _say_ things like that."

Aziraphale blinked at him. "Why not?"

"Because I - I don't know how to -"

The amusement faded from Aziraphale's eyes, leaving only concern behind. He put a hand on Crowley's arm, which didn't make anything better. "I managed to make you uncomfortable again, didn't I? Forgive me."

Crowley didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to explain this, to make Aziraphale understand - he _couldn't_ make Aziraphale understand. What should he even say? _So, I know this sounds absolutely bonkers, but please don't call the police because it_ is _true, I swear. Look. We we were angels once, until I wasn't anymore -_

"Crowley? Crowley, are you alright?"

_\- and we met in a garden and I fell for you right then and there. We have been enemies and associates and friends ever since and you are -_

" _Crowley_ , dear. You're shaking -"

 _\- everything to me,_ everything. _We tried to save the world and did a miserable job, but I stopped time because I couldn't bear the thought of losing you and I love you, I love you, I love you._

Ah. Better not.

Somehow, Aziraphale managed to steer Crowley into the bookshop. Crowley didn't protest, just let himself be led to the nearest armchair - _his_ armchair, he'd sat here so many times and Aziraphale _didn't remember_. Crowley really didn't want to sit down in it right now, but Aziraphale murmured some soothing words and pushed him down. Fine. Crowley's legs had started to give in, anyway. Aziraphale had to wrench the umbrella from Crowley's stiff hands, but Crowley barely realized. The bookshop was blurring around him, going up in flames all over again.

"Darling, breathe," Aziraphale whispered, voice only a tiny bit shaky - concern, doubtlessly. He was right there next to Crowley, sitting on the armrest and rubbing Crowley's back. "I'm right here, I'm here. We'll just -"

"I can't," Crowley gasped, leaning forward and digging his fingers into his thighs, searching something to hold onto. "I _can't_ , please - don't make me."

"Anthony," Aziraphale's voice, still warm and soothing, still _his_ \- but he never called Crowley that, he didn't even like that name; _Anthony? Really_ ? "I would never try to make you do anything. You don't _have_ to do anything, nothing you don't want to, I promise -"

A hand in Crowley's hair, suddenly, where it had never, never touched him before, and that made everything so much _worse._ But Crowley leaned into the touch, anyway, wanting more of it, and then he just turned toward Aziraphale altogether and clung to him. Hands finding their way beneath the coat to grasp that hideous tartan jumper, face buried against a soft side; it all still smelled like Aziraphale. Crowley knew what he smelled like, and it made breathing a little easier. 

Aziraphale didn't push him away. No, he just sighed softly and murmured something along the lines of "Oh, my dear boy," and fished Crowley's sunglasses out of the now narrow space between them, probably to make sure they wouldn't break. (Keep them safe. He still tried to keep things safe, always.) He left his hand in Crowley's hair, and the other came to rest on his shoulder, holding him close without trapping him.

And slowly, very slowly, Crowley relaxed into it all. Melted into the warmth, the softness, the smell, and into Aziraphale's voice whispering soothing nothings to him. Crowley could pretend like this, just for a while, pretend that everything was fine, that Aziraphale remembered who he was, who _they_ were, and that he _wanted_ this.

Another six thousand years could have passed, all squeezed into twenty minutes spent huddled together in a dusty bookshop. Years and decades and centuries; Crowley wouldn't have noticed, and he certainly wouldn't have cared.

 

*

 

Crowley didn't actually want to figure out what to do after a Thing like this. He hadn't ever done something similar before, at least not with another person present, and most certainly not with _Aziraphale_ present. He also didn't feel like repeating the experience anytime soon.

Thankfully, Aziraphale did the figuring out what to do part all on his own, or maybe he already knew what to do. At least Crowley didn't have to do or say anything, that was the important bit. 

He'd pulled away at some point, when pretending had stopped working and he'd become too aware of what he was _doing_ , and Aziraphale had let him. He'd stopped touching Crowley, too, and he hadn't tried to talk to him - the conversation that followed Crowley's breakdown consisted of nothing more than "I'll make us some tea, then" and a nod, and that was fine. Crowley took it as permission to just stay sitting right where he was and pull himself together, which took more time than it should have. Not more time that Aziraphale needed to make tea, however, and that was a bit curious, but not curious enough for Crowley to actually give any sort of thought to it.

Crowley was aware that he should leave. It would have been better for the both of them - well. For Aziraphale, surely, for Crowley… not so much. 

What would he do, then? Without Aziraphale? Being a human was awful enough, what with death sticking on his heels, but being human and _alone_ … 

Breathing started to get more difficult again, and Crowley's skin was itching. He pinched his eyes shut and tried to calm down, but naturally he failed. Calming down was a lot more complicated without Aziraphale being there to anchor him. It had been good to be alone, immediately after becoming aware that he'd just got rid of his last bit of dignity, but now -

Crowley stood up. Leave, that was what he would do. He'd leave and throw his blasted phone into the Thames, and Aziraphale would lead a very human life without being lied to and _used_ by a former demon. He'd never know, he'd never remember, and it would be better for him.

The sound of feet slowly walking down creaking stairs; Crowley stilled. How was he supposed to leave, when Aziraphale was just a few steps away? How could he? Aziraphale _liked_ him, he'd told Crowley that, and -

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, walking out of the backroom and toward Crowley, steps speeding up a little. "Are you -"

"M'sorry," Crowley said, knowing that he sounded all choked-up and messy and hating himself for it. "Didn't mean to - escalate like that, I - I'm ruining it all."

"Darling, no," Aziraphale soothed at once. "You -"

"I should go," Crowley murmured, not looking at his friend.

Aziraphale stilled. He had just set the tray he'd brought on one of the many tables in the shop - he had set it on some books, actually, which showed how worried he was - and now just looked at Crowley for a moment, brow pinched.

"Do you want to?" He asked in the end.

Crowley snorted and shrugged, wincing when he felt his eyes burn again. Fuck. Tears, really? Come on. A massive design flaw. He rubbed his eyes and stilled when he noticed that his sunglasses were gone, which immediately sent a jolt of panic down his spine.

"Oh, your glasses," Aziraphale said and hurried back to the sofa to pluck said glasses from the table next to it. He brought them to Crowley, who just stared at him, and without further ado put them back on Crowley's nose. "Here you go."

Crowley kept staring at him. Aziraphale's hand was still on his cheek, warm and soft.

"I really wouldn't be comfortable, letting you go right now," Aziraphale said softly. His fingers wandered to Crowley's hair, brushing back some wayward strands. His other hand grabbed Crowley's own. 

Crowley didn't resist when Aziraphale pulled him back to one of the sitting areas of the shop, to a two seater this time. If Aziraphale thought he should stay, who was Crowley to disagree?

"Here," Aziraphale said, handing Crowley a cup of tea, and sat down next to him, closer than he would have Before. "How are you feeling?"

Crowley shrugged again and brought the cup to his lips, taking a sip. He nearly choked on it. 

Aziraphale sighed, "Oh dear," and patted Crowley's back.

"Is this _spiked_?" Crowley spluttered, then took another sip to check. "You actually -"

Aziraphale tutted. "It's just a tiny shot of whiskey. I thought -"

"Since when do you spike tea?! Isn't that a capital crime in your book?"

"I don't know," Aziraphale said. "Is it?"

Crowley became aware that he might have made a - another - mistake, but he just huffed and gulped down the rest of the tea in one go.

"Just to calm your nerves a little," Aziraphale said, apparently willing to let it go. "I'm not trying to drug you, I promise."

"My nerves don't need calming."

Aziraphale's hum said that he disagreed, but he didn't actually call Crowley out on it. They just sat there for a while, drinking tea in silence, until Aziraphale spoke up again. "You don't have to tell me anything," he said, his tone very careful, "You _can_ , of course, but I won't pressure you. I… I would just like to know if there's anything I could do."

Crowley shook his head.

"I didn't want to, er... upset you like that," Aziraphale said, sounding devastated. "I promised we would take things slow, and then - but the day was so lovely, and I wanted… Well. Anyway. Just - please know that I _am_ sorry, if it was I who -"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Crowley cut him off. "S'my fault, not yours."

"It's not your fault, my dear," Aziraphale said at once, very gently. "I get like that too, sometimes. It's nothing you can just switch off."

Crowley didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded and stared at the again empty cup in his hands. The silence didn't last for long.

"Oh," Aziraphale said. "Did I tell you about that dear little thing I bought last week?"

"Coming from you, that can mean a few things, you know. Is it a gerbil or a box of pralines or -"

"It's a book."

"Of course."

"Come on, I'll show you," Aziraphale said, beaming, and snatched the cup from Crowley's hand. He pulled him off the sofa, then, and led him away to show him his newest acquisition. 

As distractions went, it was fine. Very efficient, actually. Looking at and listening to Aziraphale speaking about books and being all starry-eyed and fascinated, yup, that hadn't stopped being one of Crowley's favourite things.

He left the bookshop two hours later, and only because Aziraphale agreed to let him go. He brought Crowley to the door and, after realizing that it was still pouring outside, procured the umbrella he'd bought at the Tate.

"Here," he said with a smile, "We don't want you to get wet, hm? Where did you park?"

"Uh," Crowley said, fiddling around with the umbrella. "Close to the Tate."

"Oh! Why didn't you say something earlier?"

Crowley shrugged. "Didn't mind walking you home."

Aziraphale gave him a fond look. "Sweet."

"Shut up."

"Rude. Are you sure you don't want me to drive you?"

"Nah," Crowley said. And then, forcing himself not to think too much about it - because then he would have short circuited again, probably -, he leaned down a bit and kissed Aziraphale's cheek.

Aziraphale chuckled, delighted. His hands had found their way to Crowley's lapels. "Thank you," he said, still smiling, when Crowley pulled back. "For the day, I mean. It was wonderful."

"Well, at the end it kind of -"

"It _was_ wonderful," Aziraphale interrupted, his tone making clear that he wouldn't tolerate any backtalk. He fixed Crowley's lapels, even though there wasn't anything to be fixed. "Don't drive too fast."

"Have you met me?"

"Yes, which is exactly why I tell you to drive carefully," Aziraphale said firmly. "And text me when you're home."

Crowley snorted and left the bookshop, opening the umbrella."You're such a mother hen."

"Crowley."

" _Fine_ , Az. Fine."

 

*

 

Home 4:46 PM

_Good! 4:49 PM_

_Would it be very rude to ask you to give me the umbrella back, next time? 4:53 PM _

Yes, very 4:54 PM

_But it has 'Sunflowers' on it. :( 4:57 PM _

You're actively trying to kill me aren't you 4:59 PM

I'll bring it to lunch tomorrow 4:59 PM

_We're having lunch tomorrow? 5:02 PM _

Definitely 5:02 PM

_I look forward to it. You're feeling better? 5:05 PM _

I'll be fine 5:07 PM

 

 

* * *

 

 

1“I advised her to move in with her girlfriend for the time being; Anya is a lovely girl, she came and picked her up really quickly. I do hope they’ll be fine - told them to please stay in touch, and that I would deal with her parents should they come looking for her… Oh my, I rather hope they don’t. I would have to be awfully rude to them. They deserve it, though, don’t they? Being so… “ And so on, and so on, and so on. Needless to say that Crowley was thoroughly charmed. [return to text]


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise: The weekend trip I'd planned got cancelled last minute, which I was rather sad about, but at least it means I can post on schedule. xD
> 
> Enjoy!

Crowley had never been in Aziraphale's flat before. He only realized that when he was led up the stairs for the first time, a few weeks after their visiting the Tate. They had gone out a few times - mostly Crowley would pick Aziraphale up at noon and take him out for lunch - and texted a lot, some days more than on others. Aziraphale often called Crowley in the evenings and told him about the most annoying customers he'd had or that new book he was considering to buy. All in all, they spoke more than they had Before, and most of the time Crowley could forget that tinge of bitterness that just clung to it all, refusing to fade.

Cheek kisses were the usual for them, now. Forehead kisses too, sometimes, and now and then Aziraphale would take Crowley's hand and kiss his palm, then be delighted when Crowley actually let him. 

Crowley ached for more, of course. He'd been aching for more for six thousand years, and that Aziraphale seemed to want it _too_ didn't make anything easier. But Aziraphale didn't push, and Crowley's chest still tightened with panic whenever he thought of the possibility to actually… touch.

He'd been a demon once, after all, and Aziraphale had been an angel. Crowley had never much cared for all the rules that went hand in hand with being an angel, but of course Aziraphale had, and of course he'd never been happy about his being friends with a demon. And what would happen if Aziraphale would remember again, sometime? He'd hate Crowley, certainly. And Crowley had lost Aziraphale once before - had thought so, anyway -, he had absolutely no desire to go through that again. He had to be careful, he couldn't risk to overstep, to - to go too fast.

But he wanted it so much. This tasted like everything he'd ever wanted, and Crowley had never been one to deny himself what he wanted, if he could have it.

That didn't make it easier to deal with the panic, though.

"What do they say?" Aziraphale said as they walked through his flat to the kitchen. "It's not much, but it's home?"

"I like it," Crowley said, and he did. He mostly liked that this was new for him, that he hadn't been here before - he didn't need to pretend that he was seeing it all for the first time.

Aziraphale bestowed him with a brief smile. "I'm glad. Oh, here's the bathroom if you need it. I have to warn you, though, the sink overflows sometimes."

Yes, Crowley remembered that. Aziraphale had complained to him about it once, but he hadn't wanted to do the miracle himself, so he'd puppy-dog eyed Crowley into it. It had worn off when Adam had worked _his_ miracles, apparently.

The kitchen was small, but cozy - like the rest of the flat. There were surprisingly few books scattered around the rooms, but Crowley had the suspicion that there were all stacked up in waist-high piles behind the closed bedroom door. When they had spoken on the phone earlier today Aziraphale had said that he would have to do some tidying before allowing Crowley into his flat. They had wanted to have lunch, initially, but Aziraphale had had to call it off because he'd has an appointment with some kind of special customer who was apparently so busy that they had to steal Aziraphale's precious lunch time.

Crowley was still getting used to the whole book selling business. Probably he would never get completely used to it. He certainly didn't like how tired it made Aziraphale look some days - now that he was human, Aziraphale needed sleep like everyone else, but apparently he didn't get enough of it. Also, lack of sleep seemed to make him cranky. And lack of sleep _and_ lack of lunch… well. 

"I can help," Crowley said, not for the first time. He sat at the small kitchen table and watched as Aziraphale puttered around the kitchen. He'd shopped for risotto - Crowley had offered to bring whatever they needed, but Aziraphale had firmly declined. He'd also firmly declined Crowley's offers to help him cook.

"No," he said this time, too. "You're the guest."

"So?"

"Guests don't have to cook."

"Even if they want to?"

"Yes, even then."

Crowley rolled his eyes, also not for the first time. "We could have just gone out, you know. Would have saved you some stress."

"I'm fine with cooking," Aziraphale muttered, reaching for his glasses to read something in his cookbook. It would have been the most adorable sight if he hadn't obviously been a _little_ bit annoyed.

"I'm at least eighty-nine percent sure that you would have enjoyed it more," Crowley said. "And I would've liked to treat you to some sushi."

"You treat me to things too often."

"Rubbish."

"It's not _rubbish_ , Crowley. Is it so hard to understand that I'd like to do things for you now and then, too?"

"We still could've gone out."

"Yes, well," Aziraphale said primly. "Some of us don't have a seemingly endless supply of money stacked at home."

Cranky indeed.

Crowley sighed and stood up. Aziraphale looked over his shoulder and was ready to protest, but he stayed silent when Crowley took him by the shoulders and steered him to the table, making him sit.

"You can cook for me another time, okay?" Crowley said, squeezing his friend's shoulder. "Just - sit and rest for a while, yeah?" He took the wine bottle Aziraphale had procured earlier and opened it.

"That's for dinner," Aziraphale pointed out, watching as Crowley poured them both a glass. Crowley gave him a look, and Aziraphale huffed. He ran his thumb over the rim of his glass, brows pinched together, and after a moment said, "I'm being difficult, hm?"

Crowley patted his shoulder. "Only a bit. It's fine."

"No, I -"

"It's _fine._ You skipped lunch."

"I did," Aziraphale sighed. "Still. I wanted to -"

"Cook, yes. Now I'm the one cooking, and you get to watch and nag whenever I do something wrong. You'll enjoy that."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Alright, then. If you insist."

"I do." Crowley leaned down to press a kiss to Aziraphale's hair - which was exactly as soft as it looked, by the way; Crowley was still fascinated by that.

"You can cook, yes?" Aziraphale asked.

"You don't need to worry about your kitchen if that's what you're asking."

"I don't care a lot about my kitchen at the moment," Aziraphale murmured, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. "But I _am_ hungry." 

He then proceeded to take off his suit jacket and loosen his tie, which was altogether more alluring than it should have been. Crowley had to swallow.

"We could also do this some other day," he suggested carefully. "I mean, if you'd rather -"

"No no, please," Aziraphale hurried to say, "I'm happy you're here." A smile, a bit brighter this time. "In fact, I've been looking forward to seeing you all day."

Crowley, definitely _not_ blushing, turned to the stove to pick up where Aziraphale had stopped. Risotto wasn't that difficult, right? He'd manage without making a fool of himself. 

"How did that appointment go, anyway?" He asked as he began cooking the rice, hoping that would distract Aziraphale from watching Crowley too closely.

Aziraphale huffed. "Why, she still didn't buy the book, of course. We have been going back and forth on it for weeks, she simply can't make up her mind."

"So she's annoying."

"Oh, no, she's quite alright. Her collection is impressive, from what she has told me, and she's not unpleasant company. Just, you know. Indecisive."

Crowley let the rice be for a moment and turned, leaning against the counter. "Indecisive."

"Yes. Sometimes I’m not sure if she even _wants_ the book, really."

"So she’s been coming to your shop for weeks, negotiating over a book she doesn’t even want to buy, insisting to meet you for lunch…”

Aziraphale frowned. “We didn’t actually have lunch.”

“You’re aware that’s practically what I’ve been doing in the beginning, right?” _The beginning_ , Crowley thought, _no capital B._

Aziraphale blinked at him slowly. It took a few seconds, but then he paled a little. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

Crowley snorted and shook his head, then turned back to the stove. “You’re _literally_ the most oblivious person I know.”

“But she doesn’t - she doesn’t actually want to - No, I can’t imagine.”

“Maybe she’s already bought a ring.”

“Goodness.”

“You’ll be her third husband, probably, and she likes you because you’re, you know. Comfortable. No drama.” He couldn’t keep from laughing. “ _You_. No drama. She’s in for a surprise.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, trying very hard to sound offended but not managing all too well. “Shouldn’t you be jealous?”

Crowley threw a look over his shoulder. “Oh, I am. Completely. Utterly. Mad with jealousy, me.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Well, I am glad you have such trust in me. I have her phone number, you know. I’m sure she would love to go to dinner with me.”

“ _You_ don’t want to go to dinner with her, though. Or do you?"

Aziraphale thought about tha4 for a moment, then wrinkled his nose. "Not really, no. Not if she - no."

"Thought so," Crowley said. "And also I’m reasonably sure that you’re, you know. Not interested in women?” 

That was a theory Crowley had been nursing for a while now. Aziraphale had implied it now and then. Things like that had never really mattered Before, because neither ‘straight’ nor ‘gay’ nor anything else had ever been terms that could have applied to Aziraphale, just like they couldn’t have applied to Crowley. They were human terms, after all, and they hadn’t been human. 

Aziraphale sighed. “That,” he said, “is a good point.” He frowned. "Do you think she’s blind?”

Crowley, who’d just started cutting the champignons like the cookbook suggested, had to laugh. “No, angel. Maybe she just doesn't care? Dunno.”

It was silent for a few seconds. “Angel, hm?”Aziraphale asked then, his tone incredibly amused, and fond.

Upon realizing what he’d said, Crowley promptly cut his finger. “ _Fuck._ ” 

Pain. Pain was ridiculous. Another massive design flaw. Crowley’s body had always been just a vessel before, somewhat like his flat, and while his body had felt pain Before, it hadn’t really bothered Crowley himself. Now, though, _now_ it was fucking annoying.

“There is really no reason to be quite so skittish, darling,” Aziraphale said softly. He’d come to stand right next to Crowley, worried.

Crowley glared at him, but the effect of it might have been lessened a bit by his sucking at his fingertip. He took a look at it, making a face. Another new, probably human addition - seeing his blood outside of his body bothered him a bit. Well, it seemed to bother his stomach a bit, at least. Was that normal?

“I think,” he said, “I’m not fond of blood.”

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale said, taking his hand to examine the wound. “Who is? I’m fairly certain you will survive. Also  - I don’t mind.”

“What, the blood?”

“ _Angel_ ,” Aziraphale said, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “I don’t mind. Actually, I find I rather like it.” He straightened Crowley's lapels, casual in a way that told Crowley that Aziraphale knew _exactly_ what he was doing. "And, for the record - you really have no reason to be jealous, dear. None whatsoever."

“Oh,” Crowley said. Hopefully it didn’t sound as dumb as it felt. “Okay.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened and he stretched to kiss Crowley’s cheek - more the corner of his mouth, really; Crowley’s toes curled in his shoes, even though there wasn’t much place to curl. For a moment, he was far too aware that he just needed to turn his head, only the tiniest bit and their lips would meet, but then Aziraphale had already pulled back, eyes turning to the stove.

“How about a compromise?” He asked, much more cheerful than before. “We can cook together.”

“Alright,” Crowley breathed.

“Move over, then. I think the rice might be burning.”

 

*

 

The risotto was, in Crowley's own humble opinion, delicious. He also decided that he wanted to cook for Aziraphale more often. (Watching him enjoy food other people had cooked is nice, watching him enjoy food that Crowley had cooked _himself_ was… nicer.)

"Don't look so self-satisfied," Aziraphale told him, reading Crowley's thoughts as if he had never forgotten anything at all. "I helped, you know."

Fine. It still counted, though, right?

"Do you like to cook?" Aziraphale asked then, curious, and Crowley shrugged.

"Not really. Don't mind it either, though."

Aziraphale smirked. "You always order in, don't you?"

"Not always," Crowley replied. Actually he didn't eat at the flat all too often at all - he ate when he was with Aziraphale, or when the hunger got too annoying after some time. To be fair, he mostly always cooked then, just because it was a good way to pass some time.

"We can have sushi next time," Aziraphale promised, not quite looking at Crowley. "I'm sorry I was -"

"I said it's fine," Crowley interrupted. "And maybe we could - make sushi ourselves, huh?"

"Oh, I've never done that before," Aziraphale said, then nodded firmly. "Yes, I would like to try. But -"

"Hm?"

He sighed. "I simply don't want to think I am… using you, or anything like that."

Crowley stared at him. "Using me?"

Aziraphale was blushing again. "It's ridiculous, I know. We both know that I'm _not_ , do we, but - well. You are used to," he made a vague hand gestures, "better things than this, I'm sure. Better places."

Crowley took off his glasses and put them on the table. At first Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise, but then he beamed, as expected. He had asked exactly once why Crowley always wore the glasses, even indoors, and of course Crowley hadn't been able to give him a proper answer. It wasn't like he still needed to hide yellow eyes. Aziraphale had just looked at him for a moment, then assured him that he didn't mind, and that had been it. He _was_ happy whenever Crowley took off the glasses, though.

"Why do you think that?" He asked, and Aziraphale frowned at him.

"Well," he began, sounding like he was a bit uncomfortable. "You give off an air of someone who dines at very fancy places and drives a very fancy car - you _drive_ a very fancy car - and I am… just a book dealer from Soho, really."

"There's no _just_ about that."

"Hm?"

"I mean, you're not _just_ that." _You're so much more, but I can't tell you, so_  - "You _are_ that, and it's - it's perfect, okay? You don't have to worry about stuff like this."

These were such - such _human_ worries. It was weird. Crowley had never even thought about this before, about how contrary they looked out of human perspectives, not out of heavenly or hellish ones. Humans had given them odd looks often enough Before and they would most likely continue doing so now, but Crowley would not let Aziraphale believe that those looks were warranted.

"Also," he said firmly, "There is no better place than this."

The tips of Aziraphale's ears were pink by now. He laughed. "That's sweet, dear, but -"

"No. Nope. No _buts_. Also I told you, I'm not sweet.”

Aziraphale's smile was still bright, his eyes sparkling with good humour. "Of course not."

They ate in silence for a while, Aziraphale helping himself to a second serving while Crowley was still busy poking at his first. “Hey, Az?” 

“Hmm?”

“You’re, eh.” Crowley cleared his throat. “You’re doing fine, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale had just taken a bite, and he slowly swallowed before speaking. “Fine?”

“I mean, with the shop. You know. Moneywise.” Aziraphale didn’t say anything, so Crowley shrugged and shoved some risotto into his mouth. “You seem worried sometimes, is all.”

Aziraphale gave him a slightly exasperated look - probably because Crowley _hadn’t_ swallowed before speaking - and then shrugged himself. “I’m not _worried_ , per se.”

“But?”

“I had really hoped she would buy that book,” Aziraphale muttered. “I’ve been eyeing a rather lovely edition of _Iphigenia_...” He trailed off, then sighed. “Even though I already have - four, I think. And I really shouldn’t - I should really sell them first.” He gave Crowley a contrite look. “To answer your question, yes, I’m doing fine. All in all. But I might buy more than I sell, sometimes.”

And that? _That_ was the best thing Crowley had heard all day. He grinned. “‘Course you do. You’re a collector at heart. Why don’t you just keep ‘em all?”

“Because,” Aziraphale said primly, “I am also a book _dealer_. And, to be honest, I probably wouldn’t manage to, well, stay afloat, not without the actual selling of rare books.” He frowned. “Independent bookshops are really dying out, I’m afraid.”

“Yours won’t,” Crowley told him. If he’d still had been able to perform any miracles, this would be it. He’d do everything to avoid seeing the bookshop go down in flames again, be they real or metaphorical. “So, _Iphigenia_ , hm? Euripides or Goethe?"

Aziraphale gave him one of those pleased-surprised looks that were saved for the moments when Crowley showed that he knew something about literature. "Goethe," he said, smiling over the rim of his wine glass before he took a sip.

Crowley scrunched up his nose. "I always thought he was a bit melodramatic.”

"Well, of course. He was a poet."

Crowley snorted. "Fair enough. Prose or verse?"

"Prose. The 1781 rewrite, though, not the first version."

"Hm. Always liked the verse version better."

“Oh, but this edition is lovely,” Aziraphale began, beaming again. "In need of some restauration, but…" 

And he started rambling about it. Crowley listened attentively and started a discussion about Goethe’s other works, which seemed to brighten Aziraphale up a bit more. Crowley also made sure to remember the name of the dealer to whom _Iphigenia in Tauris_ belonged at the moment.

Later, when they were doing the dishes - Aziraphale didn’t decline Crowley’s offer to help, this time -, Aziraphale asked, “What was your father like?”

“My what?” Crowley said, carefully drying one of the small glass bowls they had served dessert in. Ice cream and berries - not as artfully arranged as they do in restaurants, but they’d had fun with it. Crowley might have thrown a blueberry at Aziraphale to see if it would get stuck in his hair. (It had. Aziraphale had tried very hard to pretend not to find it funny.)

“Your father,” Aziraphale repeated.

It finally registered, making Crowley still for a brief second. “Oh. Well. Why’re you asking?”

“I’m just curious. You mentioned that he left you the Bentley.”

“Right.” Crowley nodded. “He did. Few years ago.”

This was not a good topic. Crowley did not want to talk about this. He didn’t even _have_ a father. He had a mother, technically, but She had, well. Disowned him.

“Do you miss him?” Aziraphale asked gently, and Crowley shrugged.

“Not really? We weren’t… that close.”

“Oh. I see.” Aziraphale's tone was light and sympathetic enough, but he concentrates on the dishes a bit too pointedly. Which told Crowley that the former angel was prying again.

Anyone else wouldn't have noticed. Yes, Aziraphale was probably the most _sincere_ entity - now human - to ever walk the Earth, what with his absolute inability to keep his emotions in check most of the time. You could always see them on his face, always, and he'd never bothered to hide them. He had tried when other angels had been around, and he had been _irrelevant_ enough for them that they hadn't noticed he'd been half-lying to them the whole time. He was easy to see through, otherwise. 

But he was clever, and humans had always been his speciality. There was a reason he'd been able to perform not only heavenly miracles, but also demonic temptations whenever the Arrangement called for it - long story short, Aziraphale could be a manipulative little shit when he wanted to be. (Crowley liked that about him, naturally.) If he wanted something, be it a book or a special dessert or that ridiculous stain to be gone from his beloved coat, he usually got it. And what he now wanted was, as so often, knowledge - or rather information. About Crowley.

Crowley couldn't really fault him for that. He'd slipped a few times already, and Aziraphale really was no idiot. He'd already figured out that something about Crowley was odd. Crowley half expected him to just ask about it directly at some point, but so far he hadn't. Actually, Aziraphale didn't even seem particularly _worried._ Curious, yes, and maybe a bit confused, but not enough to try to pressure Crowley into telling him.

And Crowley was thankful for that, he was, because he was only too aware that this lovely little _thing_ they were building could be destroyed with just a few words. Aziraphale would hardly believe the truth, would he? And what would happen then? He'd declare Crowley insane, and they would never see each other again.

Crowley would give everything to keep that from happening.

Maybe, in time, he would forget about it. Maybe Crowley would stop slipping and be content with this. It was the only thing he had, after all, and it _was_ lovely. So maybe they would always be this then, a rare book dealer who would rather be a collector and a former demon who was still learning to cook; maybe memories were altogether overrated. Maybe they would get old together.

But for now, distracting a prying former angel was in order.

“What about you?” Crowley asked. “Your - family?” His voice got a bit too high at the end there; this was ridiculous. He knew that Aziraphale didn’t have a family. Well, they had each other, but apart from that -

“I never really had a father,” Aziraphale said lightly. “Well, at least I never knew him. It was always just my mother and me, and my siblings.” He cleared his throat. “She passed away, a while ago.”

“Oh.” Crowley swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

A smile, bright despite of the sadness in his eyes. “Thank you.”

“So, er. Siblings?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale nodded, then shrugged. “I haven’t spoken to them in ages, I’m afraid. I was always, well. The odd one, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Yeah, me too. Would you like to?”

“Hm?”

“Talk to them?”

“Oh, no. No, not really.” Aziraphale paused, frowning. “That is probably not a nice thing to say, is it?”

Crowley held up his hands. “You’re allowed to say not nice things in my presence. I like not nice things.”

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale said, managing to make an eye-roll look like a fond gesture. He dried his hands.  “Do we have blueberries left?”

They did.

 

*

 

Aziraphale had a telly and wifi, but he didn’t seem to know how either of it worked. Crowley thought that was funny and tried to explain Netflix to Aziraphale until he bristled (“I’m not _daft_ , dear, I know what Netflix is.”) Somehow, that had led to them using Crowley’s account and watching something - Crowley didn’t remember anymore what it was. He was too busy trying not to freak out because Aziraphale’s head was on his shoulder.

The worst thing, or the best thing? Anyway. Aziraphale wasn’t even asleep. Or he hadn’t been, at least, when he’d scooted closer on the sofa to tuck himself against Crowley’s side, head on his shoulder, letting out a content sigh. 

“Alright, darling?” He had asked, and Crowley had made some kind of undignified sound that had been interpreted as _yes_ , and here they were.

By now, Aziraphale was most definitely asleep. He was the most fascinating being on the planet, Crowley thought as he listened to the not-angel’s even breaths and soft snores. He’d never seen Aziraphale sleep before. He had never enjoyed it, that state of unconsciousness, of stillness; _Time is better used reading_ , he would say the first time they saw each other after one of Crowley’s decade-long naps. 

Roughly a third of a human’s life is spent sleeping. 

He moved very slowly, very carefully. Aziraphale didn’t even stir when Crowley buried his nose in soft, white-blond hair, taking a deep breath. They had so little time. _What to do with it?_ He thought, and regretted that he hadn’t kissed Aziraphale earlier.

“Angel,” he whispered into Aziraphale’s hair, gently patting his shoulder. “Hey. Time to wake up.”

Aziraphale made a very reluctant sound. Crowley wanted to kiss him even more.

“C’mon,” he said. “It’s almost midnight. “You have to be up and about early tomorrow.”

Aziraphale let out a not so content sigh and turned his head, burying his face against Crowley’s shoulder. “You know”, he murmured, his voice muffled. “The advantage of running one’s own business…” He was interrupted by a yawn, then finished softly, “Own opening hours.”

“Yes, but if I let you sleep here, you’ll complain about having a sore neck for days.”

Aziraphale seemed to consider that for a moment, then slowly sat up and stretched, rubbing his eyes. It was dark in the room, Crowley could barely see him - first time he missed his old eyes -, but he definitely, _definitely_ wanted to kiss him.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep.” Aziraphale’s voice was still soft, a little sluggish “I didn’t mean to.”

“Obviously. Need me to tuck you into bed?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t complain,” Aziraphale said, but had to yawn again. 

Well. Crowley had set himself up for that one, hadn’t he? He decided to concentrate on anything but what had definitely been an innuendo. 

“I’ll better be off,” he said. “Let you sleep and stuff. Er.”

“Are you sure? It’s late, and you drank quite a bit of wine. You’re welcome to stay the night.”

Crowley swallowed. “On the sofa?”

“If you like.”

“No, I - er, don't trouble yourself. I’ll take a cab.”

If Aziraphale was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Or maybe Crowley just didn’t see it in the darkness of the room. “Alright, then.”

He brought Crowley to the door and gave him another one of those not-quite-cheek-not-quite-mouth kisses, and then Crowley left.

He walked back to Mayfair.

 


	8. Chapter 8

It got worse after that. Or maybe better - Crowley wasn't sure. The most accurate thing to say was that it got so much more difficult to resist. 

Aziraphale was careful, but not exactly shy.. The more time passed, the more certain he became that small gestures of affection, of _intimacy_ were okay, and he didn't hold back. He'd hug Crowley when they greeted and said goodbye, kiss his cheek at the same time (and at others), hold his hand whenever the chance offered itself. He liked sitting close to Crowley, be it in the bookshop or his flat or some park in London. But all of that wasn't what made it so difficult - no, it was the way Aziraphale looked at Crowley sometimes that drove him mad. And that _definitely_ got worse.

At the moment, Crowley was sitting in the back of the bookshop, legs thrown over the arm of the chair he'd made himself comfortable in. Technically he was busy with his phone, annoying several people on several internet forums[1], but _actually_ he was watching Aziraphale. The not-anymore-angel was hunched over his desk, gloved hands turning one page after another very carefully.

"Oh," he'd said when he had unwrapped the book - his fifth edition of _Iphigenia in Tauris_ by Goethe, first rewrite, 1881. "Oh, _Crowley_. You shouldn't have."

"This is yours," Crowley had told him. "If you sell it, I'm going to be very, very angry."

"Of course, dear," Aziraphale had muttered, eyes fixed on the cover of the book. He'd gone to take a closer look at it at his desk, and since then he hadn't moved a lot. He had already started to repair the damaged spine.

It had taken Crowley almost three weeks to buy that bloody book. The previous owner had been, to put it frankly, a pain in the arse, and it was only thanks to Crowley's old demonical talents that he'd managed to buy the book without paying way too much for it. Not that he'd cared about the money, but Aziraphale would, and Aziraphale did. He hadn't yet given Crowley the lecture about how spending so much money really hadn't been necessary, but that was inevitable.

He was pulled away from his tempting business when the soft sound of a bell announced the arrival of a customer. He groaned inwardly; people who enter a shop five minutes before it closed deserved their own little corner in Hell, surely. Before the Almostaggeddon, Crowley would have ignored it, or maybe made the person become suddenly aware that they had left the stove on. He couldn't do things like that anymore, though, and also it wasn't the first time today that he actually had to get up from his chair to serve a customer.

The world had gotten weird.

He glanced at Aziraphale, but he was still engrossed in his new book and hadn't even heard the bell. Rolling his eyes, Crowley left the backroom and greeted the customer - it was a woman - with a wide and probably a tad unsettling smile.

"Hey, can I help you?"

The woman came to a jarring halt in the middle of the shop, staring at him in surprise. "Oh," she said, brushing a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Er. Hello, I - I'm sorry, I'm not sure if..."

She was obviously waiting for Crowley to say something, but he had fun not doing what humans - or anyone, really - expected him to do, so he just raised a brow. He hadn't seen her before, but judging by her surprise to be addressed by him, she might be a regular. She was a bit older than Crowley (older than this human body of his? Older than his ID suggested he was? Who knew, really; Crowley hadn't yet fully come to terms with the horrible concept of age and _aging_ and how it now worked for him) and looked like a woman who regularly misplaced her glasses and went to church on Sundays, not because she had a lot of interest in God, but because she liked watching the people there, and maybe there would be free cake in the church hall later, after all.

Crowley believed he knew who she was. What was her name again? Miranda?

"Do you work here?" She asked after a long moment of silence. "I don't think I have seen you around before…"

"Oh, I'm here often," Crowley told her, hands in his pockets. "Just not during opening hours, you know. Helping out today, though, so - you came to buy something?"

She blinked at him, then slowly shook her head. "No, I… I wanted to see Adam, actually. Is he here?"

 _Adam._ The part of Crowley that was still a snake[2] hissed a bit at that. "Er, sorry," he said, making an apologetic face. "He's nursing a cold upstairs. I've been taking care of him, but he sends me down here every twenty minutes to take care of his shop instead."

"You take care of him?" She echoed, her voice going a little high at the end.

"Yeah, sure." Crowley turned to a stack of books that was a bit disarrayed, bringing them back into order. "I'd be a shitty boyfriend if I wouldn't, right?"

"Oh," she said. "Oh. God, I'm so sorry, I - this is embarrassing."

"Huh?" He looked up from the books, then grinned. "Why, did you want to ask him out?"

The tips of her ears were red. "No," she said firmly, which was, of course, a lie. "No, I - I wanted to buy a book."

"Sure," Crowley said. "You're lucky, we happen to have some here at the moment."

Five minutes later, she left the shop with the first two books he'd recommended. She didn't really pay attention, otherwise she would have noticed that one of them was a gay erotica novel of doubtful origin.[3]She would be terribly embarrassed about that later.

Satisfied with himself, Crowley flipped the sign at the door to _Closed_ and returned to the backroom. Aziraphale hadn't even noticed that anything had happened. Crowley knocked on the door frame.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale tilted his chin toward Crowley the tiniest bit to show that he'd heard, but his eyes stayed fixed on the book. 

"Cocoa?"

Aziraphale nodded very slowly. Crowley snorted a laugh and grabbed Aziraphale's mug[4] from the desk. He then went upstairs to fill up his boyfriend's -

The mug slipped from his fingers. Thanks to his good reflexes it didn't shatter on the floor - Aziraphale would have been heartbroken about that, probably - but Crowley did manage to spill the rest of cold and stale cocoa that had still been in the mug.

He stood there for a moment and cursed, because that was often his first instinct in situations like this. Sadly, he cursed loud enough to pull Aziraphale out of his haze.

"Crowley?" He called from downstairs, concerned.

"Fine! I'm fine!"

He waited another moment, but Aziraphale didn't say anything else and he didn't come up, either. Crowley went to the kitchen and placed the mug on the counter, where it should be safe enough. Then he made his way back to the hallway.

"Boyfriend," he hissed as he wiped up the bit of cocoa. _Boyfriend!_ He hadn't really said that, had he?

Fuck, he had. _I'd be a shitty boyfriend if I wouldn't_ , that was what he had said. And if Miranda told Aziraphale - well, probably she wouldn't come and see Aziraphale for quite a while. But still! _Boyfriend!_ Tht was a very human word, wasn't it? A very human and sort of teenage-coloured word. Didn't really fit two occult/ethereal entities who had spent the last six thousand years more or less together. 

 _But_ these entities technically didn't exist anymore, so maybe it was fine? Maybe Aziraphale would be fine with it now? As far as Crowley was concerned, they had been practically married for the last few centuries, but Aziraphale had made it clear often enough that they weren't even on the same _sides_ . But that had changed, hadn't it, and this Aziraphale wasn't _different_ , per se, but different enough that maybe he indeed wouldn't mind. Besides, Crowley couldn't think of another word to describe what they were.

So he went and filled up his _boyfriend's_ mug and tried not to freak out over it.

On his way back downstairs, he stopped in front of a closed door. It was the one right next to the bathroom, where the sink still overflowed sometimes. Crowley had taken a look into every other room of Aziraphale's flat, so he knew that this door led to the not-angel's bedroom.

By now, Crowley knew that Aziraphale slept. He'd fallen asleep in Crowley's presence, after all. So of course it made sense that Aziraphale had a bedroom, and that he slept in there. Somehow, Crowley found that whole concept incredibly fascinating, which was, as he was quite aware, ridiculous. And perhaps a bit creepy, too. He didn't want to go snooping around in Aziraphale's flat or anything, but - the angel Aziraphale had never even _had_ a bed, and Crowley was fascinated.

He opened the door just a crack and peeked inside.

There were indeed a lot of books in the room, most of them in piles on the floor. And there was a bed, a big and comfortable looking thing with lots of pillows that were, just like the bedspread, Aziraphale-coloured - all warm tones and tartan. The room was tidy, but not overly so, and Crowley knew that the sun shone through the small window in the mornings.

Crowley silently closed the door and then went downstairs, where Aziraphale was still buried nose-deep in _Iphigenia._ Crowley set the mug down next to Aziraphale's elbow. To his surprise, Aziraphale managed to yank his eyes away from the book and smiled at Crowley, fingers curling around the mug.

"Had a bit of an accident?" He asked before he took a first sip, eyeing Crowley’s chest.

“Huh?” Crowley looked down at himself and spotted the cocoa stain on his shirt. He had been so busy cleaning the floor that he hadn’t even noticed it.  “Ah, shit. I’ll never get this stain out.”

“Washing machines do wonders these days.”

“This is _silk_ ,” Crowley informed his friend. He wasn’t sure if that was a valid argument. There was a washing machine in his flat - he’d been forced to buy one - but it still confused him a bit. Life was a lot more strenuous now that he couldn’t simply _will_ inanimate objects to do what he wanted them to do.

Aziraphale chuckled, the look in his eyes fond. “Leave it here, then. I need to drop one of my suits off at the cleaners, anyway, I can bring your shirt along.”

Crowley grumbled his agreement. “I cleaned your floor,” he said then, because somehow he felt like that needed to be pointed out. “Just, you know. In case you were worried.”

“I wasn’t. But thank you, dear.” Aziraphale took off his reading glasses. “How late is it?”

“Uh. Six-thirty or something?”

Aziraphale’s eyes went round. “Oh. Oh goodness, I - the shop, I totally forgot -”

“Your shop’s fine. I took care of it.”

“You - you what?”

“I took care of it,” Crowley repeated, feeling a bit uncomfortable under Aziraphale’s stunned stare. “Sold some books - lots, actually. Nothing old and precious, just newer stuff.”

Aziraphale was still staring. “You should have called me,” he said faintly.

“Well, it’s not like I didn’t _try._ ” Crowley gestured at _Iphigenia._ “You were all caught up in that. Didn’t want to pull you out of it, so I just thought - I mean, fine. Fine, sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Oh, dear boy, no,” Aziraphale hurried to say and stood up, gently touching Crowley’s arm. “That’s not at all what I mean, I - it was very kind of you. I feel rather guilty now, though.”

It was Crowley’s turn to stare. “Guilty?”

Aziraphale nodded, glancing at his desk with a contrite look on his face. “Why, yes. First you give me this wonderful book - by the way, I _know_ how expensive it was, Crowley, you really shouldn’t have.”

“Is that the point right now?”

“No. First you give me this book, and then you take care of my business all day - and I didn’t even do so much as look at you.” He looked incredibly upset. That wouldn’t do.

“It’s fine, I didn’t mind,” Crowley hurried to say. “I was kind of prepared for this, y’know. And I liked watching you work.”

“Still,” Aziraphale said, now determined, and took off his gloves. “How about dinner?”

“Hm? Oh, er, you can - we don’t have to. I’ll just head home, then you can -”

“I’d like to have dinner with you,“ Aziraphale cut him off, with that look that made Crowley believe Aziraphale had taught the first puppies how to beg for treats.

Crowley made a show of rolling his eyes, but couldn’t quite stifle an indulgent smile. “Yeah, sure, fine. Dinner. Let’s do dinner. You want to cook or -”

“No, let me take you out,” Aziraphale said, beaming, and kissed Crowley’s cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

“We were in the same room all afternoon.”

“But we didn’t _talk_.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s shirt again. “I’ll get you a jumper from upstairs, dear, then we can go.”

Crowley raised a brow. “A jumper.”

“Yes. You can hardly go like this, can you?”

“One of your jumpers.”

“Yes. Or would you rather drive home and change?”

“No,” Crowley said with a sigh. “No, give me one of your hellish jumpers, then. Just don’t make me wear tartan.”

Already on his way to the stairs, Aziraphale bristled. “My jumpers are not _hellish_ , Crowley.”

“Yeah, right. Sort of the opposite. Still ridiculous, though.”

Judging by his look, Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be offended or charmed. He’d already taken the first steps of the stairs when Crowley suddenly remembered something -

“Hey, angel?”

Aziraphale stopped and looked at him, cocking his head to one side when Crowley didn’t say anything. “Yes?”

“I, uh.” Crowley followed Aziraphale to the stairs, but stayed on the other side of the banister. “Your admirer was here.”

Aziraphale blinked. “You were here all afternoon.”

“Not _me_ , idiot. Miranda.”

“Miranda?” Aziraphale echoed and took a step down the stairs again. “Oh dear. When?”

“Er, just minutes before closing. I kind of - well, she probably won’t come back anytime soon?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, narrowing his eyes a little. “What did you do?” Crowley murmured something incomprehensible, which made Aziraphale take another step down. “Dear, you said you _weren’t_ jealous. Please tell me you weren’t unkind to her.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, had taken them off some time ago, and he was all too aware of that in the moment. “Just - I just told her we were - boyfriends, that’s all.”

A few seconds passed in which Aziraphale looked a little confused, but then his expression cleared up, and he laughed. “Oh, I see.”

He sounded delighted for reasons Crowley couldn’t comprehend, even though he believed he hadn’t watched anything with as much rapt attention as he did Aziraphale right now. “You. You don’t mind?”

Aziraphale shook his head, still smiling. “Why would I? It’s true, isn’t it?” He frowned slightly. “I hope she wasn’t too terribly disappointed.” 

"She, ng, took it in stride."

"Ah. Well, then." Aziraphale was smiling again, and he looked at Crowley with that sort of warmth that made it hard to think. "I would have told her myself, of course, the next time I would have seen her."

Crowley swallowed. "Told her what?"

"Well, that I am taken, obviously."

Crowley lost his mind for a moment.

That was how he would explain it later, if anyone asked - he lost his mind. Or maybe he'd blame it on Aziraphale's smile. Crowley didn’t think clearly and this damned human body moved all on its own, and then it was already too late. Then he’d already braced his hands on the banister and stood up on tiptoes, ridiculously relieved that he was tall enough - or that Aziraphale was short enough - that Crowley could reach the other man's lips even from where he was still standing on the floor.

He kissed Aziraphale.

That was what he did, there was no denying it - he _kissed Aziraphale_. It was a bit awkward due to the staircase-induced difference in height, but it still worked, and it was most definitely a kiss. Aziraphale’s lips were warm and a little slack in surprise, and his eyes were big and stunned when Crowley pulled back again.

It couldn’t have lasted longer than two or three seconds, but to Crowley it had felt like a little eternity. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if he’d somehow managed to stop time again, while the rest of his thoughts were busy hitting all the panic buttons they found in Crowley’s head. He looked away, already wanted to _get_ away, to say something like _I’ll wait outside_ or even _Sorry, can’t do dinner right now, totally forgot that I_ -

But then there was a warm and careful hand on his nape that made him freeze in place and Aziraphale leaned down, making all of Crowley’s panicking thoughts come to a screeching halt. They left him with a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and Aziraphale’s fingers curled into the short hairs at the back of Crowley’s head. And just like that Crowley was back on his tiptoes, pushing up, pushing everything he had right into _this_ \- this wretchedconfusingthrilling _divine_ inexplicability, this all too human feeling of lips against lips and barely stifled gasps of surprise and pleasure; the tiniest and most phenomenal star system Crowley had ever laid his hands on.

His hands were clinging to Aziraphale’s jumper when they pulled apart, and he found that he didn’t want to let go, so he didn’t. Aziraphale’s eyes, somehow so much closer than they had ever been before, were bright, filled to the brim with joy - and maybe a little dark, pupils dilated and everything; noticing that made Crowley dizzy.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, then slowly smiled, a brilliant thing. “Alright, dear?”

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale cupped his face and kissed him again. Only brief, this time, and somehow even softer. 

"I'll be right back," he said then, fingers still resting on Crowley's jaw. In reaction to Crowley's quizzical look, Aziraphale added, "I'm hungry."

Crowley had enough of his senses together that he managed to laugh at that, and Aziraphale beamed and kissed him for a final time before rushing up the stairs.

"Don't run away, please," he called over his shoulder, and Crowley grabbed the banister to make sure that he stayed exactly where he was.

 

*

 

Crowley remembered thirty-six instances of almost kisses in the entire course of history.

Of course, given that he remembered the _entire course of history_ \- apart from a few details -, thirty-six was a very small number in relation to six thousand. But every single one of these thirty-six instances was ingrained in Crowley's memory; he remembered them better than the Thirty Years' War or the great fire of Rome, because they were so much more important to him, personally, than anything the humans could possibly come up with.

Crowley remembered spending so many nights wrapped around Aziraphale, after shifting into a snake for the first time since Eden. It had been during the great flood, before there were any doves or olive twigs or rainbows. No, for several weeks it had just been Crowley and Aziraphale and the ark somewhere on the horizon, and that little wooden raft that merely carried them because they wanted it to. The nights had been so incredibly cold, and Aziraphale had been surprisingly willing to share his warmth with his cold blooded companion. They had almost kissed, then, when Crowley had shifted back to his humanoid form after the first night and they had still been so very close, and then again when Aziraphale had jumped up and pointed at the sky because, _Crawly! Crawly, look, there it is! Thank goodness!_ He'd been so happy, then. (The start of an addiction. Crowley still liked seeing his angel happy more than anything.)

Then there had been oysters and too much wine - too much wine had been involved in many of these thirty-six occasions - and Aziraphale's smile when he'd told him about _"humans and their dreams, Crowley! They want to fly now, can you imagine?"_ And Aziraphale trying to play the violin and being goddamn awful at it and hurried words exchanged in a narrow back alley after noticing that they were both following the same guy and Aziraphale gently taking off Crowley's glasses or calling him _nice_ \- or doing anything else that shouldn't be in any way remarkable but still made Crowley want to kiss him.

Thirty-six was a small number, for beings like them. (Beings like they had been.) Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed; Crowley had been sure often enough that all his, ugh, _pining_ was completely one-sided, that Aziraphale had never even _considered_ the possibilities. Maybe he hadn’t. Crowley didn’t doubt that he couldn’t have been more obvious in his - ugh again - _affection_. And Aziraphale could be very dense. It was possible that he’d been aware of the possibilities, technically, but hadn’t _wanted_ to be aware of them, and so he had always just ignored him. He’d never wanted Crowley, not like this - not in a, well, romantic sense, right? Let alone in a sexual one. As far as Crowley knew, both weren’t sorts of love Aziraphale had ever meddled in Before. He was one hundred percent sure that Aziraphale had never wanted _Crowley_ in any of these ways.[5] When the apocalypse had dawned on them, they had been together in a different way, in a it’s-just-you-and-me-against-the-rest-of-them way. Human concepts hadn’t applied to them - there hadn’t been any _need_ for romance for them to know that they were together. (No matter what Crowley had wanted.)

And now, they were apparently boyfriends. It turned out to be that this was what Crowley had wanted all along, he wanted everything from the hand holding to the kisses - all sorts of kisses -, but Aziraphale… Well. This Aziraphale wanted it to, yes? So, if they had both been born human, from the very start, if they had met for the first time in Rome or Paris or London, maybe this was how it would have went?

Aziraphale wanted this. If he hadn’t, he’d probably slapped Crowley or something. And he would never remember, probably, and they had so little time.

Not for the first time, Crowley wished that Adam would have made him forget everything, too.

When Aziraphale returned, Crowley’s head was still spinning. He’d sat down at the bottom of the stairs and was busy staring at his knees, trying to pull himself together. He only looked up when Aziraphale sat down right next to him, startlingly (wonderfully) close.

Odd, how thirty-six almost-kisses and six thousand years could lead to something like this.

“I don’t own any black jumpers, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, offering Crowley one that was wine-red. “But I thought this might do?” He blushed a bit. “It will be a bit too big, but…”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said and took the jumper. It was soft and would very likely be warm and comfortable, and it _smelled_ like Aziraphale. Crowley already wondered if Aziraphale would let him keep it.

He was then confronted with the problem that, if he wanted to wear the jumper instead of his shirt, he needed to take of his shirt first, which meant - okay, no. There had been enough first times and panicking for today, Crowley decided and simply pulled on the jumper over his shirt. Aziraphale raised a brow at that, but Crowley gave him a look that apparently convinced him that it was better not to comment. He chuckled and reached out to arrange the collar of Crowley’s shirt to his satisfaction.

“There,” he said then, very gently. “Not quite your usual style, but lovely nonetheless.”

“I look ridiculous,” Crowley informed him and rolled up the sleeves of the jumper. 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale insisted, chuckling, and leaned in to kiss Crowley’s cheek, like usual.

Crowley probably lost his mind again, because unlike usual, he turned his head and kissed Aziraphale on the mouth. Aziraphale made a soft, surprised sound, but then moved closer and kissed back, hand coming up to rest on Crowley’s nape again. Crowley wanted to try the touching thing, too, so he put his own hands, probably a bit awkwardly, on Aziraphale’s face to cradle his jaw. The skin was warm and soft beneath his fingertips - the tiniest bit of stubble, maybe; how odd - and Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind the awkwardness, at least judging by the very pleased sound he made. Crowley wasn’t sure when or how or who it started, but somehow the kiss deepened, Aziraphale’s lips parting for his tongue, and _oh._

That was all, really.

_Oh._

It was Aziraphale who pulled away in the end, panting a bit and a slightly dazed smile on his red lips. He stayed close to Crowley, their noses almost touching, and kept threading his fingers through Crowley’s hair. 

“My, it’s been ages since I last felt like this,” he whispered, sounding almost giddy, as if spilling a well-kept secret. “Crowley, I -”

“Hmm?” Crowley got out, a bit too distracted by, well, the general situation for one thing, and also by what Aziraphale had said. Because that really raised all sorts of questions. 

But Aziraphale just shook his head and chuckled, then kissed Crowley again, nothing more but a soft pressure of lips against lips. “But I really am hungry,” he said then.

Crowley couldn’t help it, he had to laugh. “Glad you’ve got your priorities sorted.”

Aziraphale hummed and glanced down, taking Crowley’s hand in his. “You’re trembling, dear.”

“M’fine.”

“Are you sure? Not too fast?”

The irony of this was ridiculous. Crowley shook his head, even though he felt a bit like rushing toward a rather high fire wall on a certain motorway. He could tell by the way Aziraphale looked at him that he’d noticed, that he _knew_ Crowley wasn’t entirely truthful, but what could he do? 

“I’m fine,” he said again. “Bit warm. I’ve no idea how you survive wearing so many layers.”

“I like layers,” Aziraphale said contentedly, then got up on his feet. He was still slightly flushed, eyes as bright as every human’s after a good and relished kiss. “Come on, then. Where are your glasses?”

Insane. This was absolutely insane.

 

* * *

 

1Old habits die hard.[return to text]

2It was just his mind now, really. He couldn’t shift into that other skin of his anymore and he hadn’t spotted a single scale on his body since the Apocalypse That Wasn’t. But he still remembered and, again: old habits die hard. [return to text]

3It was Crowley’s fault, of course. Just a few days ago, Aziraphale had told him a ridiculous anecdote about some customers coming into his job and declaring loudly that they wanted to buy pornography, even though Aziraphale’s shop wasn’t that sort of shop. Crowley had changed that by buying that sort of book and putting it into a shelf where he knew Aziraphale would spot it. Aziraphale had blushed when he’d found it, and when he had tried to reprimand Crowley later, he’d had to laugh.[return to text]

4He still used that ridiculous winged one Crowley had gifted him decades ago. Crowley still hadn’t figured out how exactly he felt about that.[return to text]

5Crowley was one hundred percent wrong, but he wouldn’t learn about this in quite some time. [return to text]


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing my posting schedule because I have nothing else to do. Enjoy!

_Crowley, please tell me you didn't sell that book. 6:56 PM_

_Crowley? 7:25 AM _

_Crowley. 7:40 AM _

**Angel |** Missed Call 8:02 AM

Angel 8:04 AM

It's the middle of the night 8:04 AM

_Slept well? 8:06 AM _

Are you being friendly or

 tetchy, cause I can't tell 8:07 AM

_You will be able to tell soon_

_enough, don't worry. Did you_

_sell my book? 8:10 AM _

What book? 8:10 AM

Oh 8:13 AM

That book 8:13 AM

_Goodness 8:16 AM _

**Angel** | Incoming Call

 

Crowley, who was still lying in bed, groaned and picked up. "Yeah?"

"I can't believe you sold my book," Aziraphale greeted him, sounding indeed more tetchy than friendly.

Crowley sat up and rubbed his eyes. "You didn't even like it," he said around a yawn.

"I did! And I wasn't finished reading it!"

Crowley's mouth fell open. "You _read_ it? You said it'd be full of steamy clichés and didn't have anything to do in a shop like yours!"

"Well, _I_ didn't intend to let a customer see it," Aziraphale said, flippant. "But it was a gift from you, Crowley, of _course_ I read it. _Would_ you stop laughing? I'm angry with you!"

"Sorry, sorry, I - don't be mad. Just -" Crowley tried to stop cackling, he really did. But in his defense, he was still half asleep and the image of Aziraphale actually reading that awful book was just too much. It was the most cringe-worthy erotica novel Crowley had been able to find, for somebody's sake. "Just wouldn't have pegged you for the type, really."

"It was a gift." Now Aziraphale was pouting. Great. "From you, nonetheless! How can you sell something that you gave me as a present? Also I'm not sure how to feel about the fact that at least one customer now believes that we _are_ that sort of shop!"

"Don't be so prudish."

"I'm not prudish."

"Also I told you, I don't think she'll come back anytime soon. And she certainly won't tell anyone."

There was nothing but aghast silence for a while. Then Aziraphale said, in a flat tone that promised doom, "You sold it to Miranda."

"Well. Er -"

"I can't believe it," Aziraphale hissed, and then he hung up.

Crowley blinked at the phone. _Uh oh._

 

*

 

Twenty minutes later, Crowley phone rang again.

"I'm so sorry," Aziraphale said before Crowley could even open his mouth. "I overreacted, I know, and I didn't mean to snap at you like that, but it was one of my _books_ , Crowley. I'm rather protective of them."

Crowley let out a relieved sigh. He'd spent the last twenty minutes freaking out a bit. "You don't say," he replied. "You're like a bibliophilic dragon sometimes."

Aziraphale stayed quiet for a moment. "Am I that bad?" He asked then, uncertain.

"No," Crowley assured him at once, finally getting out of bed. "You've never once been actually _bad_ in your whole life, I'm sure."

"I'm very glad you think that," Aziraphale said. "But if you are trying to distract me from the fact that you sold my book, I'll have you know that it won't work."

"Not trying to distract you, just -"

"Why did you sell it, anyway? And to _Miranda_ of all people! The poor woman, as if that whole encounter wasn't already embarrassing enough for her."

"S'not _my_ fault if _she_ is embarrassed," Crowley tried to defend himself. "She could just, like, _not_ be embarrassed."

"Splendid argumentation, my dear. You learned that in law school, yes?"

"I just thought she'd like the book."

"She will hate the book, if she even dares to read it. It's awful."

"You said you liked it." Crowley put on the kettle for tea and leaned against the counter, yawning. He'd been home late yesterday, after dinner with Aziraphale and then drinks at the bookshop - so much like old times that it had hurt, it really had -, and as it had turned out, this body of his was only happy when it got a minimum of eight hours of sleep every night.

He was still wearing Aziraphale's jumper. The bookseller had positively forced him to take off his shirt last night - which sounded a bit more exciting than what had actually happened. Because actually, Aziraphale had just fussed over Crowley for a  bit and then left the room under some ridiculous pretense so that Crowley could change in peace. He'd promised to take the shirt to the cleaners, after all. The jumper, as it had turned out, was incredibly comfortable.

"I liked it because _you_ gave it to me! I know you meant it as a joke, but still. I don't like losing books I have been given by someone I care about, Crowley. And _you_ can't just go around selling other people's books!"

"I sold a lot of your books yesterday."

"But they were _shop_ books, dear, this one was _mine._ "

"Yes, I got the message," Crowley said, a bit gruffly. "I - look, you want me to pay her a visit and -"

"God, no. That would be terribly rude." Aziraphale took a breath. "No, it's - well, It's not the end of the world, is it? I'm sorry. Me shouting at you shouldn't have been the first thing you heard this morning."

Crowley grunted. "S'fine. I'm used to it."

Silence, for a while, then Aziraphale sighed. "Exactly," he said softly, _guiltily._ "The last thing I want is to repeat mistakes other people made. You deserve much better than that."

Crowley already wanted to ask Aziraphale what on Earth he was going on about, but then the kettle whistled and he was momentarily distracted. 

"I'm afraid I have to ring off now, though," Aziraphale said. "It's almost nine, I should open."

"'Kay," Crowley said. "I've no idea how you can even be _awake_ already. I would've slept through til noon."

"Ah, well. I didn't want to take that risk, so I didn't sleep at all."

Crowley blinked and threw a bewildered look at the screen of his phone, as if that would tell him if he had misheard or not. "Come again?"

"Crowley, I really -"

"You haven't slept _all night?!"_

Aziraphale sighed. "I read instead, yes. _Iphigenia_ is lovely, Crowley, I must show you later how -"

" _Az,_ you can't just - not sleep the entire night. That's - that's not healthy, is it?" Crowley was very sure that it wasn't. Human bodies needed a lot of sleep, Azirpahale's couldn't be an exception. "Wait, do you always stay up the whole night after we go out? Is _that_ why you don't mind meeting up on work days?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale said, sounding a little uncomfortable. "I simply don't see any sense in going to bed when I know that I'll have to get up again in just a few hours. And I don't mind, Crowley, really. I still get lots of sleep, now and then."

"Now and then," Crowley echoed. "No, that's definitely not healthy."

Aziraphale had the nerves to chuckle. "If you say so. We can gladly continue this discussion later, if you want, but for now I really have to go. Oh, when will we see each other again? According to the forecast the weather should be lovely tomorrow, maybe we could go and enjoy it? Might be the last bit of sunshine we'll get this year."

"Yeah," Crowley agreed. "Yeah, sure. I can pick you up around three, then?"

"Mhhm. Maybe I'll close up early, then we can have lunch at the park."

"Park, right. Sounds good."

"Wonderful," Aziraphale said earnestly. "Ah, and Crowley? I -"

"Hm?"

"Take care."

And hung up.

 

*

 

[Picture attachment] 2:23 PM

[Picture attachment] 2:24 PM

[Picture attachment] 2:24 PM

Which one do you want? 2:24 PM

Spoiler alert: they're all horrible 2:25 PM

_You don't need to buy me a_

_new book!! 2:37 PM _

Am definitely buying you a new book 2:37 PM

_You're ridiculous. 2:45 PM _

So? 2:46 PM

I'm waiting Az 2:52 PM

The second one, please. 2:55 PM

 

*

 

Aziraphale was beautiful.

That wasn't a recent development, of course. He'd already been beautiful in the very Beginning, on the wall of Eden and already before that, long before beauty as a concept and society's ragged opinions about it crept into existence. Crowley had looked at him, then, and just like Eve and Adam he had figured something out: _Oh. You. I like the way you look._

It had been a shallow sort of appreciation, in the beginning - appreciation of those ridiculous almost-white curls and a soft jawline, of lively eyes and plump fingers. _I like the way you look._ It had been a surprise.

See, all angels had been, by definition, beautiful. They had been created by God, after all, and God had still loved them, and so they had been beautiful. Not beautiful in the human sense of the word, mind you, because angels, in their original forms, had actually been bloody terrifying. There was a reason _be not afraid_ had been ingrained in an ordinary angel's vocabulary. They had been too bright, too powerful, too _much._ Grace had clung to them like tar; that was what it had felt like for Crowley, anyway. One would think that tar should have been more of a demonical thing, but well. Angels and demons had not been so different, in the end. And for a demon, an angel's beauty had been sticky and stifling and altogether unpleasant.

Which was why it had been a surprise when Crowley had looked at Aziraphale and found that he liked the sight. It had stopped being a surprise after just a few centuries, because Crowley quickly figured it out. Figured out that, well - Aziraphale had been different than the other angels from the very start. He'd been built to walk the Earth among humans, to guide and protect them, and he wouldn't have been able to do his job properly when every human he'd talked to would have fallen to their knees and praised him, all the while trembling in fear and thinking, _oh god, please don't kill me, please._ God had never wanted him to be terrifying. She had wanted him to be welcoming and likeable, someone humans would look at and go, _oh, I can trust you, I know I can._  

Grace had clung to him too, but not at all like tar. No, it had followed him on silent feet; the feel of a warm summer breeze whenever Aziraphale had entered a room. It had made Crowley sneeze every once in a while, but it had never been stifling. Nobody could ever have looked at Aziraphale and be scared of him - though that had been but a better ruse, Crowley knew. Aziraphale _had_ been able to be terrifying, very much so; he hadn't been given that flaming sword for nothing. He'd fought wars to protect what he had considered worthy of protection. 

He had never enjoyed that, though. Crowley remembered Sandalphon and the grim satisfaction in his eyes when he'd performed an especially harsh smiting, and he also remembered the look on Aziraphale's face - shock and grief, and the tiniest bit of doubt, all quickly hidden. Aziraphale had never been cruel, had never even been _capable_ of cruelty. He'd been a bit of a bastard sometimes, yes, but he'd also been so caring and kind and _good_ , in a way the other angels couldn't even have dreamed to be.

That hadn't changed. 

They were, like Aziraphale had suggested, soaking up the last bit of sunshine they might get this year. Aziraphale had brought a basket and a blanket and now they were all the way up on Primrose Hill, doing nothing much except lounging about and, in Aziraphale's case, reading. Crowley was enjoying the view - not the skyline of London, mind you, even though that view was also lovely - and tried not to doze off. Now and then Aziraphale read an especially horrible passage of his new book out loud and made them both giggle, and maybe that was what made Crowley think about beauty.

That summer breeze of Grace had mostly disappeared. Crowley believed he could still feel bits of it sometimes, though that might just be what love did to humans. But apart from that, Aziraphale was just as beautiful as he'd always been, and also just as caring and kind and _good_ , and Crowley couldn't really stop staring at him. Aziraphale looked so comfortable, lying there on his stomach with his feet up in the air. He'd removed his jacket and tie and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Forearms, Crowley thought, were a vaguely underappreciated part of the human anatomy.

Every few minutes, Aziraphale glanced at Crowley and obviously caught him looking, but he didn't seem to mind. He'd kissed Crowley, _properly,_ when they had met in the bookshop earlier _._ They had needed about twenty minutes to actually leave the house.

Thinking about that made Crowley a bit dizzy, so he tried to think about something else. That passage Aziraphale had just read out loud? Better not. Curls? Not safe. Forearms? _Definitely_ not safe. Uh -

"Wine," he said to himself and sat up, looking for the bottle of good champagne he'd brought. 

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Hm? Yes, fine. Fine." Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who had put his book aside, and gave him a crooked smile. He'd found the bottle and the  champagne flutes. "You want some more, too?"

"No, thank you," Aziraphale said, a bit mournful. "One of us has to drive back."

Crowley stopped a second before pouring himself a glass. Right, driving. Driving while drunk was very much not good at all, what with them now being mortal, and he couldn't just sober up anymore. How drunk was he right now, anyway? Maybe a tiny bit tipsy? This body of his had a rather high tolerance, but still, it'd be better not to take any risks. He also had a Bentley to protect, after all.

"Crowley?"

"Hm?"

Aziraphale turned and propped himself up on his elbows, looking at Crowley out of concerned eyes. "Are you sure you're fine? You seem a bit, ah… distracted."

"Oh, er, no, just… Just changed my mind, that's all," Crowley said and put the bottle away again.

Aziraphale chuckled and lay down properly again, closing his eyes, feet crossed at the ankles. “You just don’t want me to drive the Bentley.”

“Mhhm,” Crowley agreed, a bit distracted. 

The sun caught in Aziraphale’s hair, making Crowley think of halos, making him want to _touch_ . His eyes were drawn to Aziraphale’s undone collar, the triangular patch of soft-looking skin there, the line of his throat - hands folded over the slight pudge of his stomach, fingertips stained a bit red here and there from the strawberries they’d eaten earlier. _Temptation_ , Crowley thought.

These damned human bodies.

“Would you like to leave?”

Crowley blinked and focused on Aziraphale, who was looking up at him again, eyes a little bit too knowing for Crowley’s taste. “What?”

Aziraphale looked like he was trying to keep from smiling, which resulted in him smiling even wider in the end. There was a blush creeping up his throat, all the way up until it coloured the tips of his ears. “We could go back to mine,” he said, his tone gentle. “If you’d like.”

Crowley cleared his throat and shrugged, gesturing up at the sky. “Thought you wanted to soak up the last bits of sunshine?”

Aziraphale hummed. “Well, yes.”

“We can stay a bit longer, then.”

Aziraphale looked at him a bit oddly, but then he closed his eyes again, still smiling. “Alright.” He tapped the place directly next to himself. “Come here?”

Crowley obliged and lay down as well, pushing up his sunglasses to shield his eyes from the light. Their arms were touching; Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s warmth next to him, the bit of skin against skin where they had both rolled up their sleeves. Aziraphale took his hand, entwining their fingers. Crowley thought he might be losing his mind. The demon in him scoffed at the soppiness of it all, but the rest of him didn’t really mind.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Aziraphale said after a while, his tone soft.

Crowley turned his head to look at him, finding that Aziraphale was already watching him. “Hm?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were very earnest. “You barely talk about yourself,” he said. “I’d like to - just tell me something. Something I don’t know yet.” Crowley just stared at him, and after a few seconds Aziraphale asked, “What do you like?”

“What do I like.”

“Yes.”

Crowley huffed and looked up at the sky again. “This is alright,” he said.

“Something that doesn’t have anything to do with me, please.”

“Why’s that important?” Crowley asked, squirming a bit.

“Because I would like to know _you_ , dear. Obviously.”

Not that long ago, they had known each other better than any human had ever known another human. Crowley swallowed. "There's not much to know," he said. 

"Oh, please," Aziraphale replied, squeezing Crowley's hand. "Of course there is. We could also start with something different - where did you grow up? In London?"

This was so ridiculous that Crowley had to laugh. "No, angel, I -" Ah, shit. "Er. Tadfield."

"Tadfield?" Aziraphale repeated, curious. 

"Yeah. Tadfield, it's - you wouldn't know it. Wouldn't want to know it, really, Tadfield's - very boring. Small town, a village really, very, ngk, picturesque."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Aziraphale mused. "Do you still go back there, now and then?"

"Why would I?"

"Well. To visit someone?"

 _Who, the former Antichrist and his little hellhound? Or the witch who hit my car, once?_ _You healed her bike, remember?_ Crowley managed to keep from laughing hysterically, but only barely. "Nah, not really," he said. "I mean, I know some people who still live there, but…" He trailed off.

“You didn’t like it there,” Aziraphale guessed and Crowley first shrugged, then shook his head. “So you left for London?”

“Mhhm.”

“For law school?”

“Yep,” Crowley said. Aziraphale just looked at him for a moment, expectant, and Crowley knew that a simple _yep_ wasn’t enough, so he added, “Well, sort of. S’not like I _wanted_ to go to law school. Didn’t really have a choice, though, so I went and thought I - I don’t know. That maybe I’d still be able to come home, now and then. Then I figured out that it wasn’t even home, not anymore, so I just… stayed away. You know?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said gently. “I think I do.” There was a brief pause, then he asked, “Was your father a lawyer, too?”

“Oh. Er. Yeah, right. He was. Small-town lawyer from the book, the - the worst type of lawyers, I’ve always thought.”

Aziraphale pulled softly at Crowley’s arm until he lifted it, then tucked himself against Crowley’s side, head resting on his shoulder. “Oh, this is better. Alright, darling?”

Crowley, who was rather taken aback, said, “Ngk.”

Aziraphale stilled. “If you want me to -”

“No,” Crowley said, his arm holding Aziraphale close all on its own. “It’s fine. This is - fine.” 

He closed his eyes, then, hoping that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed how Crowley’s voice had cracked. If he had, he didn’t comment on it. Aziraphale patted his chest, as if that was supposed to calm him. “What about your mother?”

Crowley needed a second to remember that he was meant to have a mother. Humans did have mothers, in the literal (human) sense of the word. “She,” he began. “Well. She wasn’t really around.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale offered quietly. His hand was still on Crowley’s chest. “Did she leave?”

“Er. It was more of a - leaving on both sides, I think.”

”Ah. How old were you?”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “You’re being especially nosy today.”

Aziraphale shifted, supporting himself on his elbow, and looked down at Crowley, apparently contrite. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I just feel like I know so little about you, sometimes. I’m still wondering why you walked into my bookshop in the first place.”

They were moving frightfully close to the edge. One more word, one more look like that would be enough, Crowley knew, enough to make him topple over that edge; he’d tell Aziraphale everything. His throat felt tight.

“Why I came into your bookshop?” He asked, a bit hoarsely.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Well, er. You… You seemed like someone worth knowing, I guess. Worth liking. Just that. I wanted to. And you were - you were kind, the first time we spoke.”

“In front of the shop?” Aziraphale said, remembering, watching Crowley closely.

Crowley took a breath. “Yes. Yes, right.”

Aziraphale rolled completely onto his side, head resting on his hand. “I never thought this would happen,” he said then, his tone light despite the wondering look in his eyes. “When you asked me to lunch, I thought -”He broke off.

Crowley blinked up at him. “What? You thought what?”

Aziraphale was blushing again. “I’m not sure. I just didn’t understand why you would ask _me_ , so I… I thought it was a prank or something, at first.”

“A prank,” Crowley repeated, brows rising.

“Well, how would I have known?” Aziraphale said, sniffing a bit. “There you were, this very young and -”

“I’m not that much younger than you, Az, I thought we settled that.”

“ - very handsome man in my bookshop, and you kept coming back, so I thought...”

“You thought I was pranking you.”

“ _No_.” Aziraphale paused. “Well, maybe. I didn’t quite know what you were playing at - but I figured out very quickly that you were being sincere, dear boy, so please don’t hold it against me.”

“I honestly have no idea what to say to this,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale sat up, hands fidgeting. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You haven’t offended me,” Crowley reassured him, unable to keep from laugh. “It’s just _ridiculous._ ”

Aziraphale looked at him, a bit testily. “Well, it’s not like a man like you has many reasons to seek out a man like _me_ , Anthony.”

“Crowley,” Crowley corrected.

Aziraphale sighed. “ _Crowley_ , then. Why you insist on me calling you by your last name is another mystery.”

“Deal with it,” Crowley told him and sat up, too. “And it _is_ ridiculous, you know. Why wouldn’t I seek you out? Is this about money again?”

“No, it’s not about money.”

“Tell me, then.”

Aziraphale lifted his shoulders and didn’t meet Crowley’s eyes, picking up an imaginary flint from his trousers. He didn’t say anything.

“Angel, come on. I can’t get this idea out of your pretty head if you don’t tell me about it.”

At that Aziraphale perked up and pointed an accusatory finger at Crowley, eyes narrowed. “There! That’s what I mean. _Pretty._ ”

Crowley already wanted to declare him insane, but then it suddenly clicked. He blinked. “Are you - is _that_ the problem, really? Looks? You’re self-conscious about -”

“No,” Aziraphale cut him off, prim. “No, I’m quite comfortable with how I look, thank you.”

“I hope so, ‘cause you have every damned right to be.”

Aziraphale blushed, but still said, “But we don’t really fit, do we? I mean. You could have everyone, dear.”

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley informed him, poking his chest. “I want _you._ ”

Aziraphale made a soft noise, and then he kissed him. It took Crowley by surprise, but that was replaced quickly enough by, well, that certain sort of blankness that came with kissing Aziraphale. The whole thing rendered Crowley quite unable to think. It was the most pleasant feeling, actually.

Crowley ended up on his back again, somehow, with Aziraphale over him, and who knew what would have happened if one of the young men from the blanket a few metres away from theirs hadn't whistled loud enough to make them break apart.

"Get a room!" The boy called over to them with a grin.

One of his friends boxed his arm and told him to shut up, then gave Crowley and Aziraphale a halfhearted wave. "Sorry!"

"It's fine, dear boy," Aziraphale told him, even though the tips of his ears were pink again. He was kneeling by now, next to Crowley who was propped up on his elbows and busy catching his breath. "Are you alright, dear?"

"Tickety-boo," Crowley said, sending a minor glare into the direction of the boys to make them stop glancing over to them.

Aziraphale laughed. "I thought I was the only one who still used that phrase."

"Mhh, I'm sure that you are. Picked it up from you, after all."

"Did you now," Aziraphale said, still smiling, and then added, "Well, then. Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

"Get a room, like the young gentleman suggested. Or, well. Get a bookshop might be more accurate."

_Oh._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the obligatory chapter they spend making out and being idiots. Could be titled "Return of the Whales". Enjoy!

_No wonder humans are so obsessed with this_ , Crowley thought, and shortly after, _no wonder_ I _spent far too much time fantasizing about this the last six millennia_. He'd always had impeccable taste, after all, and a good eye for things that would serve for a nice temptation.

This had long surpassed temptation, though. And what happened to temptation when the one being tempted gave in to it? Well - it turned into sin. Crowley was very familiar with the process. He'd experienced it himself a lot of times and caused it even more often, so he’d known exactly what was going on and what was going to happen when Aziraphale had sat down right next to Crowley, leaned over him to put the bottle he'd brought on the side table, and kissed him.

It was a bit of a role reversal, all of this. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Crowley was acutely aware of that, and also of the fact that, if he'd still been a demon, he should have been ashamed that he let himself be tempted so easily, and by an angel nonetheless. But well, knowing what type of demon Crowley had been, he'd probably just been impressed. If he'd still been able to think clearly, at least, which seemed unlikely since the angel in question was and would have been Aziraphale[1], and being kissed by Aziraphale probably would have caused the demon Crowley to spontaneously discorporate. Not much room left for clear thinking, then.

Aziraphale was, as Crowley had figured out by now, a good kisser. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of that knowledge, but right now he didn't much care about the implications. Because Aziraphale was here, with _Crowley,_ and he was kissing _Crowley,_ and at least at the moment it didn't seem like he had any intentions to stop.

Crowley's hand was resting on Aziraphale's lower back - had been resting there for a while now, while the other was buried in white-blond curls - and now he used it to pull Aziraphale closer, hoping it would get a noise out of him. Crowley liked making the former angel make noises, as it had turned out, and that was a lucky coincidence because Aziraphale didn't even try to keep quiet. The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a hum, Crowley wasn't sure, but he did know that it was a soft and pleased one, and that he wanted to hear more of it.

Aziraphale shifted a bit laboriously, getting one of his legs under him so he could turn toward Crowley properly. Crowley felt warm fingers in his hair, on his neck, his collarbones that peeked out from under his shirt; the touch made him shiver. They were both panting a little - their bodies got out of breath so quickly, now - and Crowley couldn't get enough of it, of this everything. Aziraphale was as gentle as you'd expect him to be, and this was all a bit slower and generally more _careful_ than Crowley had imagined. He was still getting used to the kissing; he hadn't done a lot of that in his life. Oh, he'd dreamed about it a lot, sure, but still. This was, for all intents and purposes, only the third day since he'd discovered what kissing was actually _like._

 _And there was evening and there was morning_ , he thought, fingers curling into the fabric of Aziraphale's waistcoat so that he could pull him even closer, _the thirdday.[2] _ He wasn't sure how much time had passed since they had begun kissing. The evening might have morphed into morning already; it wasn't like he cared.

Aziraphale pulled away, but only enough to speak. His breath still brushed Crowley's lips when he said, "You're _lovely_ , dear."

Crowley was so shocked that he nearly caused them both to fall off the sofa. Aziraphale laughed quietly, hands on Crowley's shoulders to steady him, their noses bumping into each other.

"Sorry," Aziraphale said, sincere even though he was still smiling. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

"Ngh," Crowley replied, eloquently. "You can't - can't just go around saying things like that."

Aziraphale blinked. "Why not? I want to."

Crowley rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything. Far be it from him to keep Aziraphale from doing something he wanted to do, and it wasn't like he still needed to fear Hell's discontent should word get around that an _angel_ thought he was _nice_ . Or lovely, for that matter. But still! It _was_ mortifying. A bit. (And very, very nice.)

"I can stop if it makes you uncomfortable," Aziraphale offered, running soothing hands over Crowley's chest. Crowley was very sure he was about to die. "I do want you to know that it's true, though."

"I don't want you to stop," Crowley said at once, far too quickly, having already forgotten about Hell and unimportant things like shame or self-consciousness. 

"No?" Aziraphale asked, that slightly smug tone colouring his voice. He'd used that tone often enough in Crowley's presence over the years; it was his I-see-right-through-you-foul-fiend voice. Only with a bit of fondness.

"Just - Dunno, warn me next time or something."

"Oh, I can do that." Aziraphale chuckled and cupped Crowley's jawline, leaning in again. Crowley already held his breath, but in the last moment before their lips met, Aziraphale stilled. "Oh."

Crowley stared at him, but Aziraphale didn't elaborate. "What, _oh_?" Crowley asked after a moment. "Did I do some-"

"No no, don't worry," Aziraphale hurried to reassure him, smiling widely. "I just. Maybe - would you mind terribly if I were to sit in your lap?"

How was he even real, honestly.

Crowley swallowed. Stared at Aziraphale for a moment. Then shook his head.

Aziraphale, who had waited patiently, cocked his head to one side. "Is that a _no, I would not mind_ or a _no, I_ -"

Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale's waist and tugged at him a bit, and thankfully Aziraphale got the hint immediately. Crowley didn't even need to use words, which was good because he believed that his brain had momentarily forgotten what words even _were._

Aziraphale seemed to have no such problems. He just smiled, that giddy and beamy thing of his that made Crowley's human heart do funny things. The former angel wiggled around a little before he threw one leg over Crowley's, straddling his lap. His hands were on Crowley's chest, but slowly wandering upwards to his neck, back to his jaw. Crowley found that breathing was kind of difficult all of a sudden.

"Alright?" Aziraphale asked. He sounded a bit breathless, too, which was actually rather reassuring.

Crowley nodded. His hands were still on Aziraphale's waist, holding him in a loose grip, and he didn't plan on letting go.

"Much more comfortable," Aziraphale said, making it sound like praise. He touched the frame of Crowley's glasses. "May I?"

Crowley nodded again, and Aziraphale took the glasses off and gently put them aside. He was still smiling when he leaned in for another kiss, lips warm and soft and already parted; not the slightest hint of hesitation.

Crowley's arms wrapped themselves around Aziraphale all on their own and kissed back, getting a bit more confident in this little dance of theirs. Crowley had always been quick to adjust to new and possibly frightening circumstances, and while this was new and definitely also frightening, it was also _Aziraphale_ , and Aziraphale had the tendency to make everything easier.

Thing was.

 _Thing was_ , human bodies made everything a lot more complicated, and Crowley's didn't quite know what to do with all this… all this want, and the need. Gentleness. Intimacy, intensity - a dozen other nouns came to mind and none of them would have been any less fitting; the truth was that, while it was absolutely wonderful and quite addicting, it also was a bit Too Much.

He turned his head away after who knew how much time had passed and tried to catch his breath, to stop his thoughts from reeling. His skin felt too tight all of a sudden. He squirmed a little, thinking that the problem had more to do with his trousers. Also too tight, definitely. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, hands steady and gentle on Crowley's shoulders. "We can stop if you want, anytime. Would you like to stop?"

Crowley sucked in a breath and was already nodding. _Fuck_ , this was embarrassing. A demon, shying away from snogging. Possibly from more than snogging. He wanted to sink right into this bloody sofa.

"That's alright," Aziraphale said lightly, soothingly, fingers playing with the short hairs at Crowley's nape. "Let me just -"

He climbed off Crowley's lap, and Crowley didn't try to hold him back. A tiny bit of distance was… yeah, good right now. Needed. And Aziraphale stayed close enough, anyway, close enough that Crowley could still smell him. He still used the same cologne.

"Is there anything I can do?" Aziraphale asked after a moment, careful and, besides the tiniest hint of worry hovering beneath the words, calm. "Anything you need?"

Crowley looked at him and, knowing that he would say something very embarrassing if he didn't hurry up, grinned crookedly and said, "Wine."

Aziraphale laughed. He was flushed, lips red and a bit swollen - _because of me,_ Crowley thought and, _bloody hell_ \- and Crowley was quite sure that if he glanced down, he would see that Aziraphale was in a similar state as Crowley himself. Thrilling thought, that. They didn't even need to make an effort anymore. And wasn't that a bit unfair? Crowley frowned, squirming a little; he had _liked_ having a choice regarding this.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale pulled him out of his thoughts. He reached out and ran his fingers through red hair, probably making it even messier than it already was, then leaned in to kiss Crowley's cheek. "I'd like to say something that might be a bit emotional."

"Hmph."

"Alright?"

"Yeah, sure, fine. Go wild."

Aziraphale cupped Crowley's face and made him look at him. "I like you very much," he said, still smiling. "And I'm so, _so_ happy you're here. Life has….been a lot better since you stumbled into mine, you see. I'm just glad."

Crowley knew that he was blushing, and not from arousal this time. "Didn't really stumble," he muttered, trying to look away. Aziraphale let him.

"Strut, then," Aziraphale said lightly and stood up.

Crowley frowned after him. "Saunter."

" _Saunter._ Fine, if you insist. What about the wine now, hmm? Red or white?"

 

*

 

They spent the next hours getting thoroughly and awesomely sloshed.

"I've never seen one," Aziraphale said, very sadly, and squinted at the TV. He couldn't see the screen very well through his reading glasses, but he'd started to pout when Crowley had tried to convince him to take them off.

"Never seen what?" Crowley asked. He was sprawled on the sofa, legs dangling over one arm of it because he wanted his head to be near Aziraphale's, who had fallen off the sofa some time ago and since then sat on the floor.

"A - well, you know, a…" Aziraphale raised his brows and rolled his eyes in thought, then proceeded to lift his hands in the universal gesture for something big and/or long. "That. Oh. Oops." He'd managed to spill some wine on the pillow on his lap.

Crowley narrowed his eyes at his friend boyfriend. "You speaking about whales?"

"Yes!" Aziraphale nodded his head, satisfied, then turned a bit to look at Crowley out of wide, drunkenly earnest eyes. "Whales. I have _never_ seen a whale before."

"Hmph." Crowley looked at the TV, where some kind of marine documentation was running. He wanted to remind Aziraphale that he _had_ seen whales before (several times, in fact), but he knew that telling Aziraphale about the time of the great flood wasn't a good idea. He wasn't sure _why_  it wasn't a good idea, but Sober Crowley probably had his reasons. "Big basstards, whales."

"Don't call animoo - _animals_ bastards, Crowley."

"Why not?"

"I like them."

"Sso? Nothin' wrong about liking bastards." Crowley reached out to thread his fingers through Aziraphale's hair. Aziraphale seemed to forget that he'd a point, because he merely made a _hmph_ sound in response and angled his head a bit, trying to give Crowley better access.

"I think they - they, er…" He trailed off for a second. "They have _really_ big brains," he said then, firmly, eyes fixed on the TV again. "And ah… yes. Voices."

"Hmm?"

"Voices. _Lo_ vely singing voices." Aziraphale turned his head again to squint at Crowley. "Can you sing?"

"No," Crowley said, though he wasn't entirely sure. Demons were goddamn awful singers, he knew, while angels were literally unable to sing out of tune, but the angels and demons business wasn't actually important anymore, right? Thinking about that made his head hurt. "Ugh. Wine."

"The wine," Aziraphale said and grabbed the bottle that sat next to him on the floor, raising it, "is gone, I'm afraid."

Crowley let out a discontent whine in response.

"Yes," Aziraphale said, nodding in firm agreement. Then he perked up, shoulders wiggling a bit, and gave Crowley a pointed look. "One of us could go and get more."

"More wine?"

"Mhh. You should go."

"Why me? S'your wine."

"But," Aziraphale started, then frowned. He seemed to need a moment to gather his thoughts. "But," he tried again, "I would get more wine on this if I tried to get up." He patted the pillow he was still cradling in his lab, and promptly spilled more wine over it.

That was flawless argumentation, as far as Crowley was concerned. 

He grunted and flung his feet off the sofa, nearly hitting Aziraphale's head in the process. The former angel didn't seem to mind.

"You're a dear," he said, a tad dreamily. "Wine is -"

"I _know_ where the wine is." Crowley stood up and of course the room started spinning around him, making him sway a bit. He hissed, then carefully made his way around the sofa and into the general direction of wine.

He almost landed on his face several times and bumped into some things, but he made it back to the sitting room unharmed. He dropped down on the floor next to Aziraphale, who immediately leaned against his side, as if he'd just been waiting for a chance to get closer.

"I brought wine," Crowley announced. "Angel. Wine."

"Mhh." Aziraphale fumbled for his glass and held it out, which reminded Crowley that he still needed to open the bottle.

He stared at it for a moment. It was a fancy once, expensive, most likely delicious. He didn't quite trust his fingers to open the damn thing, though. He squinted at it, trying to will the cork to just, well, pop off, but of course that didn't work. How had they opened the other bottles without miracles? How did that even _work_?

"Here," he said in the end, thrusting the bottle into Aziraphale's hand.

The bookseller made a sound that spoke of his drunken aversion to being asked to do anything at all, but he pushed up his reading glasses and examined the bottle.

"Where did I put the -" he hiccuped, "the… thing?"

"Glasses? On your -"

" _No_. The -"

"Remote?"

"I mean the -" Aziraphale made a gesture that could mean everything or nothing at all, but somehow it still made sense.

"Oohh, the opener thingy thing, yes, er -" Crowley blinked a few times. "No idea."

Aziraphale huffed and fiddled around with the cork, frowning with absurd and drunken focus. "Can't do it without when I'm drunk," he muttered. "Need a knife or -"

"Ngh," Crowley protested. Knives and human bodies were not a good combination when the latter were also drunk, he thought.

Aziraphale have a world weary sigh. "Maybe," he said, rather gloomily, " _maybe_ this is a sign of God."

"Huh?"

"We are awfully, _awfully_ drunk."

"S'not like She cares," Crowley said because, really, God had better things to do. Had had better things to do. Hell, his head hurt. "Angel."

"Hmmm?"

"I have a question. So, in theory, you know, hyp-hypo, er -"

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he prompted, "Hy-po-the-"

"- _tically_ , yes, thanks. You believe in God?"

"Oh." Aziraphale was still frowning. "No."

Crowley stared at him. "What?"

"No," Aziraphale repeated. "I don't. Hypothetically, and also not un… un-hypothetically." He grunted and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. "Hard words."

Crowley was far too drunk, or maybe not drunk enough, to deal with this information. So he just didn't. Instead he decided that more wine was in fact in order and took hold of the bottle again.

"We could just," he said, mimicking to smash the bottle against the sofa table, "you know."

"No," Aziraphale said flatly. "Goodness."

He decidedly took the bottle and set it aside, then proceeded to rest his head on Crowley's shoulder. "We should really stop," he slurred quietly. "Hangovers are very - very much not good."

Ah, right. Hangovers. Crowley had experienced a few by now; he wouldn't recommend them. "Okay then," he said. "No more wine."

A sigh. "No more wine." Then, "Why hypothetically?"

"What?"

"You said. _Hypothetically_. It was a hypothetical question."

"Oh." Crowley thought about an answer for a long moment. "Dunno. Just. If it were important."

Aziraphale hummed, sounding plastered and amused. "You're a terrible liar, dear."

That was not good. Crowley was sure that was not good."M'not -"

"It's fine," Aziraphale cut him off. "Not now. I'm -" 

He sat up very abruptly and managed to sock Crowley on the jaw, which hurt. Aziraphale slurred an apology and patted Crowley's cheek, but he seemed a bit distracted.

"I think we should go to bed," he announced.

"Oh," Crowley said. "'Kay. Er." He rifled halfheartedly through his pockets. "Hngk. Keys."

Aziraphale took his arm. "You're not _driving_ , Crowley!"

Crowley made a face. "I don't like cabs."

"You're not taking a cab. The bedroom is -", he pointed at the open door, "down the _hall_ . We don't have to _drive_ there."

Oh. 

Yeah, that made sense.

 

* * *

 

 

1Had any other angel tried to kiss him, Crowley would have thrown a serious fit. And possibly puked.[return to text]

2A demon quoting the bible? More likely than you think. (It’s Genesis 1:13, if anyone’s interested.)[return to text]


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments! Sorry I didn't answer them yet, I was a bit stressed this week. I'll catch up on that, though!

Crowley was woken up by the creaking bed. Then a muffled sound of disgruntlement and shuffling feet. A hissed _"ouch"_ when a toe met a bedpost, and a muttered "Heavens" before the steps receded. Shortly after Crowley could hear water running.

He opened his eyes.

And immediately pinched them shut again.

Fuck.

He brought his hand up to rub them, but that somehow made his headache even worse. He dropped his hand back on the mattress and then just lay there, trying not to die. Or to throw up. Aziraphale probably didn't like puke in his bed.

Aziraphale.

Reluctantly, Crowley opened his eyes again and lifted his head, grunting a little at the pain. He looked around the room and had some trouble finding out where he was. The memory of last night was a bit hazy, but he did recognize the room. Aziraphale's bedroom. That was okay. He'd slept in Aziraphale's bedroom, in Aziraphale's bed, with _Aziraphale right next to him_ , and that was okay. Definitely. Sun was shining through the window.

How much had they even drunk?

After a while, he slowly sat up. His throat was far too dry, and his mouth felt like something small and furry had curled up and died in there. It was not a pleasant feeling.

He realized that the water had stopped running, and wondered what to do. He'd never stayed the night before. Sure, he'd napped on the sofa now and then - but that had been Before. Just standing up and leaving probably wasn't the thing to do, was it? Aziraphale would find that rude. _Crowley_ would find that rude.

Aziraphale appeared in the doorframe. He was wearing a dressing gown Crowley had never seen on him before and looked only marginally better than Crowley felt. His hair was damp.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said softly and shuffled over to the bed, sitting down on the edge. He’d brought a glass of water and now offered it to Crowley. “Here. I also have -” He patted the pockets of his dressing gown, looking for something, and eventually pulled out what was probably a painkiller.

“Thanks,” Crowley muttered and took both the pill and the water.

“You can take a shower if you want. Are you hungry? I could -”

Crowley grunted and shook his head. Food didn’t seem like a good idea right now.

“Yes, me neither,” Aziraphale sighed. “Tea, then.”

“Mhh,” Crowley agreed, cradling the glass in his hands. “What’s the time?”

“Oh, about six.”

Crowley stared at him. “Six.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, then his eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry, I - would you rather sleep some more? You absolutely can, dear.”

Crowley stared at him for a while longer. He was too hungover to deal with this. "Please tell me you didn't stay up all night."

A guilty expression hurried over Aziraphale's face, but he said, "Not all night, no. But I was awake a bit longer than you - well, you were out cold as soon as you hit the mattress, darling. You must have been really tired. Not that that’s surprising, what with -”

“Don’t deflect,” Crowley cut him off, pointing at him. “S’your sleep rhythm we’re talking about. What’s up with that?”

Aziraphale gave him a dissatisfied look. “Nothing is up with that.”

“Eh, now you’re just lying.”

“I am not.”

“Definitely are.”

The dissatisfied look turned into a glare. “Fine,” Aziraphale said, whatever he exactly meant by that, and stood up. “Take your time. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Hey, wait, what -” 

But Aziraphale was already gone. Crowley threw his hands in the air and then downed the rest of the water. _Fine_ , then. Aziraphale would probably pout for a while and then apologize, and _maybe_ he’d talk to Crowley then, too. For now, Crowley was still hungover and not enjoying it, and also in dire need of a shower.

He shuffled to the bathroom and peeled himself out of his clothes. Aziraphale had already laid out towels for him, also another jumper and linen pants that were the former angel’s size, but looked like they were a few sizes too small. Crowley had never seen him before, and suddenly he found himself wondering if a human and twenty years younger Aziraphale had bought them at some point. It was an odd thought.

Crowley needed some time to figure out how the shower worked - the one in his flat was different - but he managed, and when he stepped out of it some time later he felt better. Maybe the pain killer had kicked in, because his headache was starting to fade. Thank somebody.

When he felt more or less presentable again - he looked ridiculous in Aziraphale's clothes, but that couldn't be helped now; his own from yesterday reeked a bit -, he made his way to the kitchen, where Aziraphale was sitting at the table, drinking tea. He had changed, too, and his hair was dry by now.

"I didn't mean to snap at you," was the first thing he said.

"It's fine," Crowley replied, dropping onto the chair next to Aziraphale's.

Judging by the look on his face, Aziraphale didn't think so, but he didn't say anything else. He poured Crowley a cup of tea instead.

"What's up with it, then?" Crowley asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Nothing," Aziraphale said, sounding vaguely annoyed. He put just the right amount of sugar into the cup and then pushed it into Crowley's direction. "This is perfectly normal tea."

"Right." Crowley nodded and glanced at his watch. "So, when did we go to bed? Around two pm or something? And you stood up, when? Five?"

"I really don't see why you are so hung up on that."

Crowley squinted at him. "Are you even hungover already or are you still drunk?"

"Oh, I am definitely already hungover," Aziraphale told him primly, taking a sip of his tea.

"That's why you look so tired all the time, huh? It's not that you don't get the chance to sleep, you just - you just don't."

"Maybe I was just drunk and too stoic to sleep," Aziraphale countered. "Also, you snore."

"I don't."

"You do."

"No no, _if_ I had snored, and if that had bothered you, you would have woken me up and told me to shut it. Or just straight up kicked me out of bed."

At that, Aziraphale looked positively appalled. "I wouldn't have kicked you out of bed!"

"Eh, we both know that you're not exactly the most considerate person when you're drunk _and_ tired."

Aziraphale huffed and looked into his tea, cradling the cup in his hands. "I suppose _you_ would know," he said, flippant. "I really wonder how.

"I'm just worried. My body's only happy if it gets like eight hours of sleep every night, it can't be that different for yours."

"You don't get to do that," Aziraphale said.

"What?"

"You always just - _bypass_ it when I ask you a question, you cannot keep doing that."

"You didn't ask me a question."

"I implied one. I've been implying them for weeks -"

"Yeah, maybe you should try being a little less subtle, then."

" _Fine_ ," Aziraphale hissed, turning in his chair to face Crowley. "What do you know that I don't, then?"

Ah, shit. "That's your question?"

"Yes." Aziraphale's jaws were clenched; oh, he was angry. Not just sulky or annoyed, _angry._  An angry angel was never a good thing, even if they weren't technically an angel anymore.

"I know," Crowley said, "that three hours of sleep aren't enough for you. And I just wonder -"

"Yes, and you can keep wondering," Aziraphale cut him off and stood up. He brought both of their cups to the sink, even though Crowley's was still full. "If you insist on having secrets, I will keep some, too."

Crowley turned on his chair to look at Aziraphale, or rather at the back of Aziraphale's head. This was not going well. “I don’t have -”

“I’m not stupid, Crowley,” Aziraphale said sharply, turning around again to look at Crowley. His was wringing his hands, a look on his face that’s somehow odd, helpless and angry and confused all at once. “Surely you don’t think I don’t _notice_. I thought that, if you just trusted me enough, then you might tell me -”

“No, wait, hold on,” Crowley interrupted, standing up as well. “Trust - _trust you enough_? What does that mean, huh?”

“Well, I - the last weeks, they were -”

“What, they were what? You trying to get me to _trust you enough_? Manipulating me into -”

And both helplessness and confusion were gone again, leaving only an angry flare behind. “I don’t _manipulate_ , I -”

“You do! You’re bloody good at it, too, but you don’t understand -”

“Then _tell me_!” Aziraphale took a few steps toward Crowley, stopping right in front of me. “Tell me,” he repeated, voice shaking, “Talk to me, _please_. I know there is something worrying you, something that has to do with me. You - you _know_ too much. You’ve known too much since the very start, before you even knew me!”

Crowley didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he _could_ say, he couldn’t just go and explain this, Aziraphale wouldn’t - he wouldn’t believe him and think him insane, or worse, he _would_ , and either way, it would put an end to this odd and fragile little thing they’d been sharing. 

“And no,” Aziraphale said, a tad bitterly, when Crowley didn’t say anything. “Of course I don’t understand, how could I? It doesn’t make any _sense_.”

“Yeah, no,” Crowley agreed. His voice sounded dull in his ears, far away; maybe he just couldn’t hear it properly over the rushing in his ears. “You’re right, it doesn’t. I, uh - look, I - I’ll just go.”

Aziraphale was so perplexed that he seemed to forget about his anger. “What? Crowley, no -”

But Crowley had already turned and left the kitchen. Aziraphale came after him, of course, calling his name with rising levels of urgency. Crowley ignored him. He had enough trouble breathing as it was, and this conversation wouldn’t even _lead_ to anything - not to anything good, anyway -, so why have it? Why have it? Crowley didn’t want to have it. He wanted to go back to bed, actually, back to Aziraphale’s bed because it had been warm and smelled very nice, and he didn’t want to think about any of this right now, so he would just -

“Crowley, please! Stay, we can -” 

A hand grabbed Crowley’s arm, and he flinched so hard that Aziraphale took a stumbling step backwards, his hands up in the air and eyes wide. Crowley vividly remembered another moment in which he pushed a certain angel against a certain wall, only that that angel had looked much less unimpressed by him than he did now.

Crowley rushed down the stairs, and then out of the bookshop.

 

*

 

 **Angel |** Missed Call 9:25 AM

 **Angel |** Missed Call 10:32 AM

Crowley? 11:44 AM

I’m sorry. Did you come home safely? Please call me. 11:52 AM

 

*

 

“Is there anything I can do?” Crowley asked, tone bordering on desperate even though he tried to keep it in check. “Anything at all? There _has_ to be something, a way to make him remember.”

“As long as Adam doesn’t want him to be remember, he won’t,” Anathema said with a light shrug, apologetic look in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”

Crowley snorted softly and nodded, looking away. He hadn’t known what to do. He hadn't seen or spoken to Aziraphale in almost a week now. He’d spent the days in bed, mostly, or on the sofa, watching all seven seasons of _Golden Girls_ and eating food he’d ordered in. He also shouted at his plants a little, but they didn’t seem scared of him anymore, so that was entirely unsatisfying. He’d turned off his phone and, just like that, made it impossible for Aziraphale to contact him.

He hadn’t known what to do. He still didn't. Driving out to Tadfield had seemed worth a try, but now, after a very fruitless and frustrating conversation with an eleven year old who didn’t have enough patience to listen to a former demon’s anxious rambles, Crowley knew that he could have stayed in bed just as well. He’s potted Anathema on his way out of the village, and she hadn’t needed long to convince him to have a cup of tea with her. 

“I think you should just tell him,” she said firmly. “I don’t think he’ll react badly.”

“Right, of course not.” Crowley nodded. “I mean, who would? Being told that he’s actually an angel who prevented the apocalypse when he doesn’t even _believe in God_ , yes, he’ll love that. And there’s nothing better than learning that your boyfriend is actually a snake _and_ responsible for the Fall of Man.”

“Were you really?” Newton asked. He was sitting next to Anathema, hand frozen in mid-air because Crowley was more interesting than his biscuit all of a sudden.

“Yes, I was really,” Crowley replied, annoyed.

“You were _that_ snake?”

“Yes, I was that snake. You want an autograph or what?”

“No, er - No, thank you.”

“You underestimate him,” Anathema said. “He probably knows more than he lets on. Adam said -”

Crowley’s eyes snapped back to her, narrowing. “You talked to Adam?”

“Of course I talked to him,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And he said that he didn’t just _wipe_ your angel. He didn’t want to delete all the memories, he just buried them deep enough to make sure that,” she indicated quotation marks, “‘things go the way they should’.”

Crowley gaped at her. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“He moves in mysterious ways,” Newt murmured, very helpfully, into his cup before he took a sip.

“No, he doesn’t.” Anathema shook her head. “He’s a _child_ , he moves in the most obvious way possible. You’re just a little - daft.”

The last bit was directed at Crowley, who huffed and wished he could still perform demonic miracles. “I’m not _daft_ , thanks. But let’s - let’s get back to that thing he said, so, _basically_ , Aziraphale’s memories are - they’re not gone? Not completely? He could remember, technically.”

“I suppose,” Anathema said, uncertain. “But like I said, I don’t know the way to make him. Or if there even really is one. Maybe telling him -”

“I can’t just tell him.”

“Fine, then don’t. But call him, okay? You can’t just keep ignoring him, that’s not fair.”

“I’m the bloody Serpent of Eden,” Crowley muttered, helping himself to a biscuit. “Of course it’s not _fair._ ”

 

*

 

It was in the middle of the night when Crowley turned his phone on again. He was immediately confronted with a lot of missed calls and text messages, all of them apologetic or worried. There were also a few voicemails, but Crowley didn’t listen to a single one.

He called Aziraphale instead. He picked up after the second ring.

“Oh, thank goodness. What did you do, turn off your phone? Don’t do that again, do you hear me! I was worried _sick_ , and I don’t even know where you live - I’m so sorry, darling, really. I didn’t mean to start a fight or to - to scare you away, I simply -”

“You,” Crowley interrupted, “should be sleeping.”

Aziraphale stayed silent for a moment, probably stunned speechless. “Not that again, please,” he said then, sounding uncomfortable.

“It’s true, though.”

“Well, why aren’t _you_ sleeping?”

“My sleeping habits aren’t up for discussion.”

“Ah, I see.” Aziraphale said. “I _am_ sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, really,” Crowley said, fiddling around with the remote. The frozen screen showed Dorothy in the middle of speaking; it was a funny frame.

“I pushed you to talk to me, even though you clearly don’t want to. I shouldn’t have.”

“No, I get it,” Crowley insisted, still staring at the screen. He’d thought about this a lot. “It’s just - I can’t tell you. I can’t.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything for a while, then asked, “Why not?”

“I just can’t. Not on the phone, anyway, and not - not _yet_ , okay?”

“Alright,” Aziraphale agreed, sounding a little hesitant. “But please know that I won’t be offended, Crowley, yes? Or put off. No matter what it is.”

“Ah, yeah, you can’t know that.”

“I do.” Aziraphale’s tone was firm.

“How?”

“I’ll tell you, the next time we see each other,” the bookseller promised. “We can also talk about my sleeping habits then, if you insist.”

“If you think that’ll get me to tell -”

“No,” Aziraphale said at once. “No. I’ll tell you because I will want to, and if you ever want to you can tell me, too. Not because you have to, or because you think you should. Alright?”

Crowley frowned at his knees. “You didn’t seem this relaxed about this a week ago.”

“Well, I had enough time to think. You didn’t talk to me, after all.”

“Yeah, ngh. Sorry about that.”

“Accepted,” Aziraphale said warmly. “Now, tell me what you were up to these last days. I did miss hearing your voice.”

“Ngk.”

“You have been binging that series of yours, haven’t you? That American one, with the ladies. What’s it called?”

“ _Golden Girls_ ,” Crowley said, his frown deepening. “Question, how do you -”

“Know that? I’m sure you told me.”

“I’m sure I didn’t.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, sounding like he was smiling. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

The bastard.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited chapter because I'm still a bit stressed. I hope there aren't too many typos and stuff in this. xD

They had planned to meet in the café not far away from the bookshop, but when Crowley spotted Aziraphale on the sidewalk, he couldn't _not_ stop the car. The brakes screeched a little and somebody honked behind him, but Crowley paid it no mind and parked the Bentley where cars were not allowed to park.

"I don't think you're allowed to park there, dearest," was the first thing Aziraphale said, and Crowley had missed him so bloody much that his brain stopped working for a second. That kept happening lately.

He threw himself at Aziraphale, who made a surprised _oomph_ sound and then wrapped his arms around Crowley, only hesitantly at first, as if he expected Crowley to pull back again any passing second. But when Crowley only held onto him tighter, Aziraphale chuckled softly and returned the hug _properly._ Crowley nearly discorporated on the spot, even though merely discorporating wasn’t really an option for him anymore. But it felt like it, a little. If discorporating had felt nice, it would have felt like this, definitely.

“I missed you, too,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s neck; Crowley couldn’t quite suppress a pleased shiver.

“It’s just been a week,” he said, trying to sound dismissive and failing.

"Still." Aziraphale squeezed him gently and then pulled back, looking at Crowley with a bright smile. "Come on, then. I think there's rain on the way."

"There's always rain on the way," Crowley grumbled, but offered Aziraphale his arm. 

The former angel beamed as if Crowley had given him the keys to the bloody library of Alexandria. Naturally, Crowley cleared his throat and looked away, eyes drawn to the what Aziraphale's free hand was carrying.

"What's that?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale glanced at the linen bag. "Your shirt, dear, I picked it up from the dry cleaner. And a surprise."

"A surprise."

"Yes."

"I don't like surprises."

"My bad," Aziraphale said cheerfully, squeezing Crowley's arm. 

He was nervous. Crowley could tell. His smile was sincere, but a bit jittery at the edges, and he didn't manage to hold Crowley's gaze. It made Crowley rather nervous in return.

They reached the café, where they were greeted by the young waitress as soon as she spotted them. She seemed overjoyed to see them, or rather to see Aziraphale, which didn't make a lot of sense until Crowley read her name tag - _Elizabeth._

"Mr. Fell! Hi! I haven't seen you in weeks, I was already starting to get worried." 

"So sorry, I had meant to stop by - but, well, you know how it is."

"I bet you were just too distracted by your books to think of me," Elsie - because who else could she be? - said, eyes flickering over to Crowley as if she wasn't actually speaking of books.

"Ah," Aziraphale said, hands fiddling around with his bag. He was blushing. "Yes, well, this is my - Crowley."

"Your Crowley?" Elsie echoed. "Cute, Mr. Fell."

"Anthony Crowley," Crowley chimed in. "I'm his boyfriend."

"Yes, I figured." She smiled at him. Her glasses made her eyes look bigger than they were. "I'm Elsie. And, Mr. Fell -"

"Yes, dear?"

She gave him a meaningful look. "You have bloody good taste."

"That's hardly news," Aziraphale said, smiling, while Crowley preened. 

She brought them to a table at the windows, and as they sat down Aziraphale looked at her, seeming mildly worried.

"How have you been? Forgive me, but you seem a little tired."

"Is it that obvious?" Elsie gave him a slightly crooked grin that showed off her dimples. "I'm fine, Mr. Fell, you don't have to worry. Just a bit stressed because of uni, that's all."

"Oh, I see. Be kind to yourself, dear girl, yes? I'm sure you will exceed all expectations."

"Thank you." She paused, notepad already in her hands. "It's helped, though. Moving out. So - really, thank you. I needed that nudge you gave me."

"I'm glad I could help," Aziraphale said, sounding like the most earnest person that had ever existed. He probably was. "But I do believe Anya had already done most of the nudging. Reminds me - how is she? Still working on her thesis?"

"Oh, yes. But almost done, she's got only a few weeks left." Elsie looked at her hands for a second, thinking, then added, "Er, actually… There is this book she's been trying to get her hands on, about - I can't pronounce the name, Yava… something. He translated some kind of Greek book? About astrology?"

"Yavaneśvara?" Crowley asked, surprised. 

"Yes, that's it!"

"Your girlfriend's writing about Jyotishya?"

"Well, among other things, yeah. She's in astrophysics, actually, but her thesis is about ancient Indian doctrines and if and how they can be linked to modern…" She realized that both Crowley and Aziraphale were watching her with faint amusement and stopped, blushing a bit. "Well, anyway, you get the gist of it. It's amazing, really! And she's doing so well, but - that book…"

"Write down title and author, would you?" Aziraphale said, smiling. "I'll gladly track it down for you."

Elsie stared at her for a moment, then started to beam. "Really?"

"Of course, dear girl."

"You're the best, Mr. Fell. Anya will be over the moon, I'll just - I'll text her and write it down for you!" She was still grinning widely, but now seemed to remember where there were. "Sorry, I didn't mean to steal your time or anything -"

"It's completely fine!"

"Okay." Elsie lifted her notepad. "So, can I already get you anything, or would you like some time to decide?"

"I'll just take the usual, please," Aziraphale said, smiling at her.

"Alright! Mr. Crowley?"

He gave her a grin. "I'm happy with a black coffee, thanks."

"He takes milk," Aziraphale added.

"I don't."

"You do. I won't sit here and watch you pull faces, darling, so -"

"One coffee with milk, then," Elsie decided, exchanging a conspiratorial look with Aziraphale. "It'll be right up!"

Aziraphale thanked her and she made her way to the back of the café.

"Indian astronomy," Crowley said. "Funny topic for a thesis in astrophysics."

"I'm sure it will be groundbreaking," Aziraphale replied, that gentle firmness in his voice that indicated that he'd just given the universe a nudge into the direction he thought the best. Well, it would have indicated that Before, at least; now it was really nothing more than good wishing and optimism. 

Crowley hummed and looked at Aziraphale, whose hands were fidgeting and who still didn't meet Crowley's eyes for longer than four seconds. There was a few moments of _almost_ awkward silence, then the former angel suddenly leaned down to grab his bag and put it on the table in front of him.

"The stain is all gone," he said, too cheerful, and pulled something out of the bag. It was not a shirt. 'And. Well, here. For you."

He offered the rectangular package to Crowley, who accepted it with a bit of hesitation. It was a book, quite obviously, Crowley could tell by the form and the feel of the cover through the dark red wrapping paper, and also by the fact that this was Aziraphale, and of course Aziraphale was giving him a book.

"Go on, dear, open it."

Crowley snorted at the giddy excitement in Aziraphale's voice - better than the awkwardness, certainly - and carefully unwrapped the gift. He couldn't remember if Aziraphale had ever given him a gift before, at least not like this.

It was indeed a book. _The Night Manager,_ by John le Carré.

"Did I get it right?" Aziraphale said, nervous. "I wasn't sure -"

"How," Crowley said, staring at the book in his hands, "on _Earth_ did you know that?"

"Oh. Well, I -"

Elsie came and brought what they had ordered - coffee for Crowley, tea and a piece of cake for Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiled at her in thanks, but apart from that ignored both tea and cake. Which was bloody worrying.

"Have you read it yet?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yes," Crowley said. 

He'd read it right after it had come out, in 1993. He had found it in Aziraphale's bookshop and borrowed it, and after a few months Aziraphale had asked him politely if he could return the book to its place in the shelves when he was done with it, and also offered that Crowley could come and read in the bookshop whenever he liked. Crowley had kept on insisting that he didn't read, especially not these ridiculous spy novels.

Aziraphale deflated. "Oh. I'm sorry. Maybe you would like a different one, I could -"

"No," Crowley said, looking at him. "No, this is - ngh, nice. Thanks. It's just. I don't. Read. You know."

"You just said that you read it already."

"Yes, but - didn't exactly tell the whole world, did I? And you - never told _you_ , I'm sure."

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale said. He finally took his fork. "Well."

" _Ah, yes, well_ ," Crowley imitated. "Could you be a _little_ less - this?"

"A little less this?"

"Yeah."

Aziraphale stared at his cake for a moment. "I know things, sometimes," he said then, his tone very careful.

"I know. I know that you know things. Everybody knows that you know things. You're a very intelligent bookshop owner, of _course_ you know things."

Aziraphale pinned him with a exasperated look. "Be silent for a moment, would you? It's - not easy to explain. So please - And it's not like _you_ have any right to be impatient, dear."

Okay, fair enough. Crowley put the book on the table and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and raising an expectant brow.

Aziraphale just looked at him for a moment, waiting for who knew what, and then he averted his eyes and looked around the café. Crowley watched him with rapt attention, and the only clear thought in his head was this - _What do you know?_

"Ah," Aziraphale said after a short while. "There. The dark-haired woman with the child, do you see her?”

“Sure.” Crowley looked over to her; a woman in her early thirties, typing away on a laptop while her son, not older than ten, devoured a piece of chocolate cake.

“She is writing an application,” Aziraphale said. His brows twitched into a tiny frown, then he looked back at his own plate. “She’s already gotten four rejections this month, and she will get another one tomorrow. Her current job doesn’t pay enough to cover the bills, and her husband -,” he cut himself off, then corrected, “ex-husband, he doesn’t pay the maintenance he owes. She is playing with the thought to sue him, but I don’t believe she will.”

Crowley stared at him.

Aziraphale took a bite of his cake and took his time swallowing, then spoke without looking at Crowley.  “Then, the young man at the table right next to her?”

Crowley glanced at said man - a boy, really - and nodded.

“He is studying accounting because his father didn’t allow him to study… art, I think. He worries that he has failed his midterm exams. I’m afraid he has.”

It stayed quiet for a long moment, and only then Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes again, a frustrated, helpless look in his own. Crowley had seen that look before, quite a few times - there had been the whole disaster with the ark, then Golgotha, the Black Death, all the wars they had witnessed. This look, every time when miracles just weren’t enough, or when he simply wasn't allowed to interfere.

“I don’t know them,” he told Crowley, his voice still calm; a sharp contrast to his eyes. “I _don’t._ I can’t tell you their names or where they grew up, and often I don’t know _anything_ , but sometimes - sometimes I do."

He fell silent, and Crowley didn't do anything but stare at him. He couldn't. He knew what the other man was talking about, of course. This, these things Aziraphale knew - he'd known them about every human, Before. They both had. Part of the job, really, and damned annoying sometimes - there were nicer things than looking at someone and knowing everything about them, be it how they could best be helped _or_ tempted. 

Odd, that Aziraphale had kept that ability, at least to an extent. Crowley hadn't. But Aziraphale had used his knowledge to do good, after all, so maybe Adam hadn't seen a reason to take it away from him. And it wasn't _that_ odd, really - Crowley had met a handful of humans who'd had it to, this… oh. 

This _sixth sense._

"You think I lost my mind, don't you?" Aziraphale said, sounding oddly resigned.

"What? No." Crowley leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "You told me, you know. Right at the start."

Aziraphale frowned. "I'm sure I did not. I don't tell anyone."

"No, but you did. 'Some sort of sixth sense', you said. A few times."

"Oh." Aziraphale sighed. "I suppose I did, yes. But I was always half joking, and you knew that. I'm not joking now."

"Yes, right."

Aziraphale looked at him for a rather long moment. "Do you have nothing else to say?" He asked then. It could have sounded challenging, maybe, if the confusion hadn't overshadowed everything else.

"What else do you want to hear?" Crowley said, even though the honest answer would have been, _yes, a hundred things and more._

"You really believe me?" Aziraphale said, frowning.

"'Course I do." Crowley turned the coffee cup on its saucer. _He_ sounded oddly resigned now. Rather felt like it, too. "So it's the same with me? You just - you just _know_ things about me?"

"Er." Aziraphale fiddled around with his serviette, visibly uncomfortable. "Yes? Although… It is a little different."

"Different," Crowley echoed, perking up a little. "Different how?"

Aziraphale looked at him very carefully. "I'm not sure," he said finally. "It's… With the others, it feels like…" He trailed off, then cleared his throat. "I'm not sure how to -"

"Like knowing the date," Crowley jumped in. "Or - or seeing that they have brown hair. Facts, nothing more."

"Oh! Yes, that's…  That's quite apt, dear, how -" Aziraphale put down his fork and gave Crowley a searching look. "You cannot do the same, can you?"

"Huh?"

Aziraphale's brows pulled into a deep frown. "I believed that you couldn't, this whole time. I _knew_. People like me are rather good at hiding it, usually, and you - with all due respect, darling - are not. Which is why it doesn't make any sense…"

"Er," Crowley said. "No. I mean, you're right, I'm not. I can't. I don't know anything."

Aziraphale raised a brow. "Of course not."

Time to change the topic, Crowley thought, and asked, "And what - I mean, what's it like with me, then?"

"Oh. A little bit like - like things coming back, I suppose."

Crowley vaguely felt like he was about to faint. "Coming back?"

"Yes," Aziraphale sighed. "It's not - not a very fitting description, but… I don't know how else to explain it." He poked his cake with the fork a little too vehemently. "It's _frustrating._ "

Crowley gaped at him. He gaped at him long enough that Aziraphale stopped harassing the cake and looked up again.

"Crowley, dear? Are you alright?"

Crowley hummed, a little absent. Aziraphale continued to look concerned and slightly suspicious, but he let it go. 

"I don't know a lot about you," he said. "Well, I do know you, of course, but apart from the things I learned in the last weeks… Oh, you like astronomy, don't you?"

"What?"

"When we talked to Elsie earlier -"

"Oh. Yeah, right."

"Hmm." Aziraphale smiled; a brief and slightly brittle thing. "But that's less a matter of knowledge than deduction, really."

Crowley swallowed. "And what - what else? Apart from the _Golden Girls_ thing, and the spy novels?"

"Oh." Aziraphale thought about it for a moment, then he said, his tone firm, "I know that you care for me."

Crowley's mind was quite blank. "What?"

Aziraphale nodded, swallowing a bite of cake. "You're rather odd, you know." He blinked, then hurried to add, "In the best possible way, mind you, I don't - please don't be offended. But you _are._ A mystery, in a way. But I know that… well, that you would rather leave than endanger me in any way."

Well, shit. That hadn't quite been _I know that you love me_ , but it was pretty damn close.

"Isn't that considered rude?" Crowley's voice sounded annoyingly weak in his own ears.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Pardon?"

"Saying that. Before I. You know. Told you."

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale said, reaching out to take Crowley's hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't think - if you'd like, we can pretend I -"

" _No._ No, it's - ngh, fine, just - it's true. I mean. Fine." In lack of something better to do with his hands, Crowley downed about half of his coffee in one go. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, far too fondly.

"It's _fine._ "

Blessedly (well, not quite anymore, right?), Aziraphale didn't say anything else to the matter. He kept smiling, though, and Crowley doubted that it was solely because the piece of cake Aziraphale now finished. Even though it looked delicious.

"Crowley?"

He stopped playing with his cup and looked up, finding that Aziraphale was watching him with a careful and gentle look in his eyes.

"I just want you to know," he said finally, "that, no matter what it is you can't tell me yet - I'm quite sure I have known worse things."

Crowley swallowed, and nodded. He doubted it, but he nodded. He didn't know what to think, because nothing Aziraphale had said made a lot of sense right now, but he didn't want to ask anymore questions either.

Well. Just this one, maybe.

"And what's -" He cleared his throat. "What's with the sleeping, huh?"

Aziraphale looked at him, then took a sip of tea. Then another one. And another.

"Angel," Crowley prompted, fingertips drumming softly on the table.

"Well. I, er."

Crowley raised his brows.

Aziraphale gave him a reluctant look. "I just don't like it," he admitted finally, his tone prim and guilty at the same time. "So I don't."

"You don't like sleep," Crowley stated flatly. That wasn't exactly a surprise, but now that Aziraphale _needed_ sleep, it did seem a bit… inconvenient.

"No." Aziraphale had bristled slightly, taking turns between frowning at his tea or Crowley. "It's just - so _pointless_ , isn't it? Nothing more than wasted time, when you think about it. I could do so much _more…_ Whether it's reading, or doing inventory or _taxes_ , or -" He broke off abruptly.

Ah.

"Or worry about everything you _know_ , right?" Crowley asked, a cold feeling settling down in the pit of his stomach. "About everyone you could be helping?"

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and put his cup down on its saucer. He hid his hands beneath the table, then, most likely to hide their fidgeting. "Should," he corrected, voice tight. " _Should_ be helping."

"Angel -"

"No, I - it's ridiculous. I know it is. It's weird enough that I know these things at all, and I don't have the time or the means to help them all, so I can't." He laughed, very briefly, and it was the saddest sounds Crowley had ever heard. And he'd heard a lot of sad sounds. "I just wish I could."

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? _I wish I could help._  

The ark and the crux and the plague and the wars all over again.

See, Crowley didn’t actually miss being a demon. Sure, that he couldn’t work miracles anymore was annoying because life was harder like this, but he was on a good way to get used to that. it wasn’t like his demonic work had been anything compared to what other demons had been up to - he had never _actually_ started a war or something; he wouldn’t have been able to -, but he’d still been a _demon_ , and he’d ruined a fair share of human lifes in the six thousand years he’d been on Earth. And he’d never really enjoyed that part, so actually it was - yeah, it was sort of _nice_ , being freed of that expectation.

Aziraphale had liked being an angel, though. He’d never been a good angel in Heaven’s books, but he’d been a good one where it had mattered - he had helped people, a lot of them, and he had loved it. He’d liked being useful, liked settling down in his most comfortable armchair at night knowing that at least a handful of people would sleep better thanks to him. He’d been so warm and kind and _soft_ , and while he _had_ been able to stand and watch people burn (something Crowley himself had never quite understood), Aziraphale had also always been the first on the battlefield when it was all over, helping them get back on their feet in every way he could.

Thing was, all these things were still true. Aziraphale hadn't stopped wanting to help when Adam had done this, and apparently the boy hadn't taken _everything_ from him, either. His memories still seemed to be gone, though. Well, mostly - _like things coming back._

Crowley supposed that was a start. A good sign, maybe. He had hoped that Aziraphale remembered, of course - that Aziraphale _knew_ him and still wanted him, he'd hoped that he wasn't alone with all these goddamn memories. But Aziraphale didn't remember, he just - knew things, sometimes.

And they made him sad, because he couldn't help. He was an angel without miracles who had kept both his second sight, as it were, and his compassion, of _course_ his knowledge made him miserable.

Well done, Adam. Really.


	13. Chapter 13

Aziraphale had been right, there had been rain on the way. When they left the café, it was pouring down on them, and while Crowley suggested going back to the bookshop, Aziraphale smiled, tucked his arm into Crowley's and said, "Let's go for a walk."

"A walk?" Crowley repeated. "A walk with a destination, or -"

"No. No, just a walk. Or do you have to go?"

"No, 'course not. I'm free all day."

Aziraphale's smile turned into a full on beam.

They picked a direction at random and started strolling, arm in arm. The umbrella Aziraphale had bought in the Tate shielded them from most of the rain, but Crowley's shoes and trouser legs still got wet. Aziraphale stayed suspiciously dry from head to toe, which made Crowley wonder if there wasn't still some remains of angelic luck clinging to him. Or maybe he was just better at avoiding puddles.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, just as they passed King's College. He didn't say anything else.

Crowley raised a brow at him. "Yeah?"

Aziraphale glanced at him only briefly, his smile a little nervous. "I'll be in Inverness," he said then, very carefully. "In October."

"Oh. She finally gave in then, huh?" 

Aziraphale had been going back and forth with that Scottish book dealer for a few weeks and had complained about it to Crowley often enough. She hadn't been willing to sell that one book of hers that Aziraphale would love to have, but apparently that had changed.

"Yes, she did," Aziraphale said, smiling a little more happily now. "I had to promise to repair some of her books, though. That's no hardship, of course, but I'll have to stay there for a while. At least two or three weeks."

"Oh," Crowley said again. 

There wasn't much else he could say, really. He was used to Aziraphale leaving London now and then, of course. Before the Almostageddon, they had left for work often enough, and Aziraphale had also left to hunt for books now and then, much like he did now. So, no, Crowley wasn't surprised, and he didn't _mind_ , either, it was just - Two or three weeks.

Two or three weeks without Aziraphale seemed like a very long time right now. The last week had been horrible.

"And, I've been thinking," Aziraphale continued, "that you could maybe, if you'd like, come with me?"

He spoke so quickly that it sounded like _thatyoucouldmaybeifyou'dlikecomewithme_ , his voice even getting a bit higher there at the end. For a moment, Crowley very certain that he had misunderstood, because Aziraphale _never_ asked him if he wanted to come with him - that had always been more something Crowley did, and Aziraphale had said no pretty much every time.

"It was just a thought," Aziraphale added, still a little too quickly. "You don't have to, of course. I understand if you have other things to do or -"

"You really _mean_ that," Crowley interrupted, looking at Aziraphale over the edge of his glasses. 

Aziraphale frowned slightly. "Of course I mean it, my dear. Why wouldn’t I?”

Well. 

 _Your side won’t like it_ , sat on the tip of Crowley’s tongue, right next to, _The Arrangement doesn’t exactly cover things like this_ , and, _You never wanted me to come anywhere with you, not like this._ But all of that wasn’t really something he could say, of course, because Aziraphale would have no idea what sides Crowley was speaking about, or what their Arrangement was - thinking of it, that really wasn’t in force anymore, anyway -, and maybe, for this odd version of them, trips to Scotland were on the table. Why would Aziraphale ask otherwise?

Crowley pushed his glasses up his nose and looked forward, unable to hold Aziraphale’s gaze. “Fine. We won’t take your car, though. It wouldn’t survive the journey.”

“My car is perfectly suited -”

“Do you want to be responsible for your car’s death? I don’t think so.”

“Could you stop speaking about my car as if it _can_ die, please? It’s making me nervous. Also, I was planning to take the train.”

“We’re taking the Bentley, definitely.”

“I’m not sure if _we_ survive that,” Aziraphale said. “You’re not the, ah, most careful driver, darling.”

“The fastest, though.”

Aziraphale gave him a skeptical look. “Which is why I’m worried, yes.”

They argued about that some time more, even though it was already clear what they would do.[1] Eventually Aziraphale changed the topic, though, and started talking about Inverness and books and hotels and more books, and he was still going on and on about that when the façade St. Paul’s came into sight. Crowley stopped listening. He didn’t care much for churches, obviously, but he’d always liked St. Paul’s. It was pretty, and he was fond of that one song from _Mary Poppins_. 

“Crowley? Are you alright there?”

“Hmm?” Crowley dragged his eyes away from the cathedral to look at Aziraphale. “Yeah? Yes, sure. You were saying?”

Aziraphale smiled, looking across the street at St. Paul’s. “Would you like to go inside?”

Crowley couldn’t keep from laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a _church_.”

“So? You’re religious, aren’t you?” Aziraphale took Crowley’s arm and steered him toward the cathedral. “Come. Maybe we can wait inside until it stops raining, it’s getting a bit unpleasant, don’t you think?”

Crowley swallowed, but let himself be dragged over the street and up the stairs. It was ridiculous, of course - he wasn’t a demon anymore, and a human’s feet weren’t burned by consecrated ground - but he had only entered a church once in his long life, and the memory wasn’t altogether a pleasant one.[2]

It was still raining and, judging by the dark sky above them, it wouldn’t stop raining anytime soon. Who knew how long they would have to wait for it to stop - but of course, that wasn’t the reason Aziraphale wanted to go inside. He knew Crowley too well, and he’d most likely figured out by now what longing looked like on Crowley’s face.

The steps were fine. But were the steps of a cathedral already blessed? Crowley didn’t know. He watched as Aziraphale slipped through the door like it was nothing - well, of course it was nothing for _him,_ he’d never had any troubles stepping into churches. He’d been the one who had blessed the churches, for Somebody’s sake.

“Are you coming, dear?” Aziraphale called to him from inside. 

Crowley clenched his teeth and closed the umbrella, shaking it a little so it wouldn’t drip all over the bloody consecrated ground. Then he carefully stepped into the cathedral, just one foot at first, to try out whether it hurt or not. It didn’t.

Huh.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, rather fondly, and Crowley looked up to find the not-angel watching him with a confused-exasperated expression on his face. “What are you doing there?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said, then quickly made his way back to Aziraphale’s side. He kept looking at his feet, waiting for them to catch fire or something. He felt _nothing_ , though. Well, nothing apart from the wetness of his shoes, which were apparently not entirely waterproof.

Aziraphale raised a brow at him, but seemed to decide to let it go. He linked their arms again and began leading him around the nave, while Crowley was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he was in a _church_ and that he could have been in a bloody petrol station for all he cared because it _did not hurt in any way_. Eventually he just forced himself to top freaking out, and started looking around.

The cathedral was pretty from the inside, too. A bit pretentious but well, all cathedrals were, right? It was surprisingly quiet, that sort of silence that felt a little reverent but probably was just people being quiet because it felt like they had to. It was late enough that there weren’t any tourists walking around, and full enough that Crowley felt like there might some sort of event starting soon. He wasn’t that well informed on that sort of stuff. Aziraphale confirmed his assumption soon enough, though.

“I think it’s almost time for evensong,” he whispered, eyes wandering over the people settling down on the banks or talking to each other in hushed voices. “Would you like to stay?”

Crowley felt a little lost. He clutched the umbrella in his free hand a little tighter. “No. I mean, I’m not - I’ve never.”

Aziraphale squeezed his arm and, after taking a look at his watch, said,  “We should still have a bit of time. Come, let’s look around, shall we?”

So they did. Look around, that is. Crowley merely let Aziraphale take the lead and just walked next to him to wherever he happened to go. Aziraphale pointed out some artwork now and then, talked about mosaics and sculptures and the library, which was sadly closed at the moment, and Crowley just listened and tried not to lose it.

He was in a church. Nobody had thrown him out yet and probably nobody would, and Aziraphale was there with him and there weren’t any nazis or guns or bombs around, and it felt like, for a moment, as if She was there, too - hidden somewhere between glass and stone, beneath the marble floor, in flickering candles. Crowley could barely breathe, because She wasn’t _actually_ there. Couldn’t be. And even if she was, _he_ wouldn’t have been able to feel her. Imagination, nothing more.

“Oh, I’ve always liked these,” Aziraphale said, stopping in front of a rack of votive candles and watching them for a moment. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

Crowley stared at him for a moment, then at the candles. “I thought you didn’t, you know. Believe in God. You said that, didn’t you?” He wasn’t actually sure right now. He _had_ been a little drunk.

“I did, yes,” Aziraphale said, stepping forward to take a closer look at the flickering lights. “And I don’t. But I like these, anyway. They’re like good wishes. People light them and feel a little more hopeful afterwards. It’s lovely.”

Crowley came to stand at the other’s side and looked at him, sort of stunned. Aziraphale looked lovely like this, smiling, with candlelight caught in his hair. 

“I don’t understand,” Crowley said weakly. It didn’t make any sense. Aziraphale had been an _angel_ , dammit. “Shouldn’t you. I don’t know. Not _like_ any of this, then?”

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked, inclining his head. “This was all thought up by us. Humanity, I mean. There are so many places like this on Earth, all different. But they feel -” He paused, looking around to where a group of people in white robes had started assembling. “It’s just extraordinary, I think. Some people just come here because they feel like they are supposed to, but others actually feel at _home_ here. They find something to believe in, something to hold onto. Some people here are so incredibly lost, you can’t imagine.” He turned back to the candles, the look in his eyes now sadder. He was still smiling though, and his tone was firm when he continued. “It helps them. I don’t have to believe in any gods to appreciate that.”

“But why?” Crowley asked. “If you _appreciate_ all of that, why not - why not God, too?”

“Are you trying to convert me?” Aziraphale said, amused.

“What? _No._ ” A former demon converting a former angel. Right. “No, I’m just - just trying to understand.”

“I’m not sure if there _is_ anything to understand,” Aziraphale said, patient. “I just don’t see a reason for it, for believing in a god. There is so much good in the world, isn’t there? So much bad too, of course. It’s all here, and _we_ are here, too, so I feel like we are bound to take both credit and blame for it. Following the rules of someone - or several someones, or something - that might not even exist, rules you can’t change or even talk about, it seems… a bit too much like groping in the dark, doesn’t it?” He took a candle from the rack and lightened it. “I’d rather… have my own moral code, I think, and decide about right and wrong for myself. I’d rather be my own person than someone else’s, even if that person is called god.”

Crowley’s chest felt rather tight all of a sudden. “So you really don’t,” he said, quietly. “I mean, you really don’t believe in - anything?”

“Oh, I do.” Aziraphale put his candle back on the rack. “I believe in humans. In us. That’s more than enough, I should think.”

Crowley kissed him. And right there, in a cathedral, in front of the goddamn candles and while people started singing something neither of them actually cared about, Aziraphale kissed him back.

 

*

 

Crowley woke up not long after midnight. He’d had a weird dream he couldn’t remember - not having dreams certainly wasn’t something he missed - and already knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while, so he got up and made tea. 

It was raining, he found when he looked out of the kitchen window. It had been raining for the better part of the last week. September was drawing to an end and summer was well and truly over, he supposed. Crowley didn’t particularly mind. He wasn’t as sensitive to cold as he had been before, and that it was almost October meant that he and Aziraphale would go on their little trip soon. They had already booked the train tickets - because of course they took the train - and a small cottage a bit outside town, and they would be away for three weeks in total. Crowley wasn’t sure whether he was scared stiff or looking forward to it. Aziraphale seemed happy about it, though, so Crowley would live. Probably.

He sipped his tea and then went to look after his plants, because that was what he did when he felt restless. He found a few leaf spots and promptly had a tiny breakdown, because he couldn’t _do_ anything against things like this anymore. The plants weren’t afraid of him anymore - or maybe he’d just lost the ability to be aware of the feelings of plants - so screaming at them was entirely pointless, and he didn’t feel like shouting, anyway. He was tired, and the fact that the bloody plants wouldn’t even listen to him even _if_ he shouted at them was… annoying. Maybe even sad. So Crowley went and took his phone from the nightstand, then did what he always did lately when he felt like this. 

Aziraphale picked up after just a few rings, and Crowley was honestly exasperated.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” He asked in lieu of greeting. 

“ _You_ called _me_ , darling,” Aziraphale said, amused. “I could ask you the same, I think.”

“Ngh.”

“Are you alright?”

He didn’t sound like he’d been anywhere near his bed in the last hours; Crowley could tell by now. He had called Aziraphale once or twice when he’d actually been sleeping for a change, and the former had been at first very concerned, as always, and then very grumpy.

“M’fine,” Crowley said, settling down on the sofa with another cup of tea. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment. “There was a woman in the shop today,” he said then, hesitant. “She lost both of her sons, in an accident. Just last week.”

“Oh.” Crowley didn’t need to ask if the woman had told Aziraphale about that or not. It didn’t really matter. “What did you do?”

“I talked to her for a while.” Aziraphale sounded much more tired now. “And sold her a book her younger son would have loved. I’m not sure if that made it better or worse.”

“She’ll read it at some point,” Crowley said, “and think about him. She will love the book, I’m sure. Maybe not, you know, _soon_ , but… Eventually.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed with a sigh. “I hope so.”

It didn’t do to tell Aziraphale that he did good, or that he couldn’t have done anything else. Crowley had tried both at some point, and Aziraphale hadn’t taken to it that well. He was always a little tetchy when he was tired and frustrated.

So Crowley changed the topic and said, “I had a weird dream.”

“What was it about?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley could hear the smile in his voice.

“Dunno. I think there were ducks, but I’m not sure.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Ducks, of course. Who doesn’t dream about ducks every now and then?”

“I still think they’re planning world domination.”

“Mhh. Definitely. Although, I’ve always thought geese looked a little more, you know, devious.”

Crowley made a face. “I don’t like geese. Why do they have teeth? They shouldn't have teeth.”

“You were bitten by one once, weren’t you?” Aziraphale asked, sounding a little too much like he already knew the answer.

“... No.”

Aziraphale laughed again, and Crowley smiled. _Mission accomplished_. 

“So, a weird dream,” Aziraphale said warmly. “Is that the only reason you called?”

Crowley squinted at his cup. He was never completely sure if Aziraphale didn’t know more than he told him. He has his little brainwaves now and then, after all, that odd mixture of knowing Crowley well by now and half-remembering things he shouldn’t be able to remember. 

“I had an argument with my plants,” Crowley said eventually. Lying to Aziraphale mostly didn’t work, either.

“With your plants?” Aziraphale echoed, surprised. “You argue with plants?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Not anymore. They stopped listening, kind of. And now they have all these spots and all look kind of sad and not as green as they should be, and it’s making me nervous. I can’t just throw them away, though, because I’ve had them for _ages_ and tossing them into the garbage disposer doesn’t have the _effect_ anymore, you know, so I just. I have them. And I don’t know what to do with them. So I didn’t have a real argument,  really, I, er - I just glared at them a bit and they _ignored_ me, and that’s annoying.”

Silence, for a moment. Crowley was suddenly all too aware that he’d been rambling, so he cleared his throat and continued rambling, at least a little, because there wasn’t really anything else he could do.

“I just read that you should talk to them, you know. Somewhere. But I feel like it doesn’t really work anymore. What d’you think about that?”

“I think,” Aziraphale said after a moment, somewhere between concerned and amused, “that I would like to see these plants of yours.”

“Oh. I mean, okay? If you want, sure.”

Aziraphale hummed. “Give me your address, then. Mayfair, yes? I can be there in twenty minutes.”

Crowley stared at the screen of his phone for a split second, then put it back against his ear. “What? You mean, like - _now_?”

“Yes. Why not? We’re both awake anyway, aren’t we?”

Right. Good point.

 

* * *

 

 

1 One of Aziraphale’s most prominent character traits was that he was very good at making Crowley give him what he wanted.[return to text]

2Crowley had already been on his way back to the Bentley, after all, and hadn’t seen the angel looking after him and realizing something very, very important.[return to text]


	14. Chapter 14

When the doorbell rang, Crowley needed a moment to realize what the sound was. He didn’t hear it that often, after all. When he did figure out what it was, he stopped tidying his living room that did not actually need to be tidied and all but ran out of the room. He forced himself to walk at least a little slower in the hallway.

As he waited for Aziraphale to come up the stairs, Crowley tugged at his shirt  and wondered if it was possible for humans to look at least somewhat presentable at almost two am on a Wednesday night.  How did they do these sort of things without miracles? The thought of squeezing himself into a pair of his too tight pants in the middle of the night, when his pyjama pants _were_ so much more comfortable, had been goddamn unbearable, so he’d just changed his shirt. He hadn’t had these sort of problems when he’d still been a demon.

Thankfully, Aziraphale didn't look much better when he reached the top of the stairs. Well, he was still Aziraphale, of course, and Crowley would have enjoyed looking at him even when he'd been covered in mud from head to toe or dressed in fourteenth century clothes. But Aziraphale did look tired and his hair was a bit of a mess and the clothes he wore weren't as impeccably ironed as usual, so he didn't really have a right to be bothered by Crowley's slightly disarrayed state, right?

Judging by Aziraphale's sunny smile when he spotted Crowley leaning against the door frame, he wasn't. 

“Hello!” He said brightly, a little out of breath. The exclamation mark was audible even though he was whispering. "You live in a lovely neighbourhood, dear."

“Ngk. Just go ahead and call it snobby, would you?”

“I didn't say that it _isn't_ snobby,” Aziraphale said, and before Crowley could even roll his eyes he was given a quick kiss that made him forget about bickering. Sadly, Aziraphale pulled back again rather quickly, keeping his hands on Crowley's chest as he smiled up at him. “I have to admit that I'm a little curious. All this time, and I've never seen your flat - not that I mind that we're in mine so often! I'm very glad that you're comfortable there, but -”

“Just come _in_ , angel,” Crowley interrupted with a huff and stepped aside, making way for Aziraphale to enter the flat.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, smile flickering up again. “Yes, of course.”

Only when he bent to pick it up, Crowley noticed that Aziraphale had brought a small traveling bag, an old thing that looked like it came straight out of the fifties. He gaped at it for a moment, then looked back at Aziraphale, who noticed his slightly bewildered stare.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said again, fiddling around with the strap of the bag. “Well, I just thought - I don’t mean to assume, of course, and if you’d rather I leave later, I absolutely can and will, but it _is_ rather late - or, well, early - and I thought I’d likely stay the night, so… I contemplated leaving it in the car, but that felt just ridiculous, also I didn’t want to have to go and fetch it later, so I -”

“It’s _literally_ the middle of the night,” Crowley cut him off for a second time, “how are you even awake enough to talk this much?”

It seemed that Aziraphale couldn’t decide whether to be abashed or offended. “You were awake enough to argue with your plants, my dear.”

“Wasn’t arguing with them,” Crowley said and took Aziraphale’s bag from him. “Get going, Az. It’s freezing out here.”

Aziraphale gave him a mildly scolding look, but he took off his shoes, ignoring Crowley’s eye-roll, and walked past Crowley into the flat. He was wearing striped socks. Unable to keep from smiling, Crowley followed and closed the door behind him. Aziraphale was already taking off his coat, looking around with poorly hidden curiosity. He gave Crowley a thankful smile when he offered to take the coat.

“Wine?” Crowley asked, feeling awkward.

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking? Ah, well. A glass or two can’t hurt.”

Crowley made an agreeing sound. “Red or white?”

“Just choose what you’re in the mood for, dear boy,” Aziraphale said absently. “I’m not fussed.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and pointed down the hallway. “Sitting room’s that way. Make yourself comfortable, I guess.”

He went to get the wine, reasonably sure that wanting to get out of Aziraphale's sight not even five minutes after he arrived wasn't a good thing. But this was new, very new, and so it was also very frightening.

Crowley picked a bottle at random. When he returned to the sitting room, Aziraphale was standing not far away from the sofa with his hands behind his back, a little awkwardly. He was examining a shelf with records, even though Crowley doubted that he could see a lot. Crowley had left the light on when he’d stumbled out of the room to let Aziraphale in, but it was on a dim setting, and the night behind the windows was dark.

“Already snooping around, huh?” Crowley asked as he hesitantly walked over and handed Aziraphale one of the glasses.

“Only a little,” Aziraphale said, cheerful. “I’m surprised to see that you listen to other things than bebop.”

“I keep telling you, angel, I don’t even _own_ bebop.”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale smiled into his glass, taking a sip. “Still. Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart - quite different than Mercury, aren’t they?”

“I only listen to Queen in the car,” Crowley muttered and turned, leaving Aziraphale alone with the records to make himself comfortable on the sofa.

After a brief moment, Aziraphale followed and sat down next to him, his posture as proper as always. He was still looking around, with an odd expression on his face.

“You don’t have to like it,” Crowley told him. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale hurried to say, sounding almost guilty. “I don’t _not_ like it. It fits you, in a way. I’m sure the view is lovely, when it’s a little brighter outside.”

“But?”

“Hm?”

“Ngh, c’mon, don’t tell me there wasn’t one on the way.”

Aziraphale cradled his glass in his hand, taking another sip before he said, “ _But_ it is a little… empty.”

“It’s called minimalism, angel,” Crowley corrected. “Look it up.”

“Same difference,” Aziraphale said, giving him an indignant look. “I don’t mean to offend you, darling. I’m just used to a bit more,” he made a vague gesture, “clutter. I can’t even _see_ the walls in my place, and here’s quite a lot of them.”

“I’m sorry my walls make you uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale heaved a sigh. “I’m not uncomfortable, Crowley. Would you like me to leave again?”

Crowley sat up straighter at that, frowning. “What? Why? Do you want to -”

“ _No_ , of course not. I just feel like you’re a little… nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, smiling, even though he most likely didn’t believe a word Crowley said. “Because you don’t have to be. I’m happy to be here.”

Crowley evaded having to answer by drinking his wine. They just sat there for a while, in silence that wasn’t comfortable but almost. Crowley didn’t know why Aziraphale was even _here_ \- but Aziraphale had asked, and Crowley had never been good at telling him no, so that was probably all there was to it. No other reason. He should have known that it wasn’t the best idea. Crowley remembered sitting on a bank with this angel and offering him to stay the night in this very flat. He didn't remember ever arriving here together, but even as he'd sat on that bank he'd known that Aziraphale would not fit into these rooms. And that was even more obvious now, seeing Aziraphale sitting here in this dim-lit room, with his tired eyes and striped socks. 

Crowley’s flat wasn’t as bare as it had been Before. Since miracles weren’t an option anymore, he needed actual physical things to, well, _live_ , and that included everything from the records Aziraphale had inspected earlier to various kitchen utensils. He’d even bought throw pillows and two blankets for the sofa, in an attempt to make the modern and expensive thing at least a bit more comfortable. The whole flat was a little more lived in now, he guessed, and he should probably be glad about that. Otherwise this Aziraphale might have looked even more worried than he already did.

“What about your plants, hm?” Aziraphale said eventually, after the silence had stretched on for too long. Their glasses were already empty. “I came to see them, after all.”

“Just the plants, huh?” 

“Mhh. Nothing but the plants.”

“Right.” Crowley put his glass on the sofa table and stood up. “Come on, then.”

Aziraphale followed him and, even before they left the living room, reached out to take Crowley’s hand. Crowley was used to that by now[1] and let it happen, even carefully squeezed Aziraphale’s hand to make him smile. (That one always worked.) He didn’t let go until they reached the room that was still filled to the brim with the greenest plants in London. Only that they were altogether a little less green than Before and that some of them dared to have spots now, and possibly even were proud of them. 

Crowley switched on the light. “Well, here you go. Don’t be nice to them, they don’t deserve it.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in that chastising tone of his and stepped closer to one of the plants, examining it. “They’re beautiful, dear, all of them. You talk to them?”

Crowley just shrugged and grabbed the plant mister, just because his hands were in dire need of something to do.

“I read somewhere that it’s supposed to be good for them,” Aziraphale said, gently stroking the leaf of a ficus. “Never quite worked for me, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, but you’re not good with plants, anyway,” Crowley said. “Not a single plant at yours.”

“I have a cactus! And she’s doing very well, just so you know. Her name is -”

“You don’t name plants, angel, that makes them think you’re fond of them.”

“I _am_ fond of her,” Aziraphale said, stubborn as ever. He leaned down to the ficus. “And don’t listen to him, do you hear me? I’m sure that he loves you dearly, all of you.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and turned away to mist another plant. “Wonderful. They’re going to think they deserve to be coddled if you keep that up.”

“Oh, but they do.”

“Hmph.”

“Also you said that they weren’t even listening anymore, so maybe they didn’t even hear me.”

“You'd better hope they didn't,” Crowley said gruffly.

Behind him, Aziraphale laughed quietly and came to stand next to Crowley. He took Crowley's free hand again, leaning against him a little. “They are really lovely,” he said gently. “And they don't look sad at all, and the spots aren't half as bad as you made it sound.”

“Ngk. They're still not scared anymore, though.”

“Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?” Aziraphale asked, his voice gentle. “Why would you want them to be scared?”

Crowley shrugged again; he couldn't think of a better answer.

“I think you should keep talking to them.”

Letting the plant mister sink, Crowley looked at Aziraphale. “You don't even find this odd, do you?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Odd? What would I find odd?”

“This,” Crowley said again, gesturing at both himself and the plants.

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, then huffed softly, seemingly amused. “I saw a gentleman in another car when I drove here and knew all about the unspeakable things he does in his freetime,” he said. “When it comes to oddness, I'm quite certain I don't have any right to judge.”

“Unspeakable things,” Crowley repeated, raising his brows. “What, does he like to be tickled in bed?”

“That would hardly be unspeakable,” Aziraphale said. “No, nothing like that.” He frowned. “Maybe I should call the police tomorrow.”

Crowley gaped at him for a moment, then shook his head and turned back to his plants. 

 

*

 

Twenty minutes later, they were kissing.

Crowley wasn't completely sure how it had happened, but he wasn't about to complain. Aziraphale had started it. Or, well, at least he had laughed about something Crowley had said and kissed his cheek, so Crowley had had to kiss him. And now here they were - Crowley's back against the wall, Aziraphale pinning him against it, standing on tiptoes as they kept kissing, and kissing, and kissing. A philodendron leaf fell against Crowley's temple for the about fifteenth time, but he'd given up pushing it away. He was too distracted by Aziraphale’s hands wandering down his chest and finally fiddling around with the hem of Crowley’s shirt.

Crowley broke the kiss to suck in a breath, and Aziraphale’s hands stilled.

“I’m sorry, I -”

“No,” Crowley interrupted, trying to get his brain to remember how speaking worked. Odd, how quickly want had clouded his thoughts.  “No, you - you can. If you want. You can.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale started to smile. “ Yes?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and squirmed a bit. “Yes. Go on, I don’t have all -”

But one of Aziraphale’s hands had already come up to cup the back of Crowley’s neck and pull him into another kiss, and speaking and words really weren’t any important anymore. Aziraphale’s other hand slid under Crowley’s shirt, just like that. The touch was very light and careful - maybe too light, because it made Crowley shiver. Suddenly, Aziraphale started to laugh, quiet and breathless, and after a moment had to pull away a bit, burying his face against Crowley’s shoulder.

“What? Angel, what?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, his wide smile audible in his voice. “Just. Does he like to be tickled in bed?”

Crowley huffed. “Shut _up_.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Aziraphale got out, still giggling under his breath, and then he began kissing Crowley’s neck.

Crowley let out a rush of breath, head falling back against the wall. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he just fisted his hands somewhere into Aziraphale’s jumper and held onto him. Aziraphale was gentle, the kisses soft except for the occasional hint of teeth and flick of tongue, and Crowley was very sure that he was melting. His knees were going to give in, and he was going to make a fool of himself and _god_ , Aziraphale’s warm hands on his bare stomach and sides were _glorious._

He was making very embarrassing sounds, probably, but he didn’t have the nerves to care right now.

It was almost disappointing when Aziraphale lifted his head, but then his mouth was on Crowley’s again, so it was fine. Completely fine. Crowley kissed back and pulled Aziraphale closer until there was not even an inch of air between them anymore, and Aziraphale made a sound that had Crowley’s knees wobble dangerously.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s mouth, after minutes or maybe hours (who the hell cared). “Crowley, would you - we could take this to bed?”

Crowley swallowed thickly, staring at Aziraphale’s face so close to his own, at the greedy look in shining eyes and the wet mouth, and _he looks like this because of me, because of me, because of me._ “To bed?” He echoed, voice absent and raspy.

Aziraphale smiled, calm even though his breaths were a little uneven, and ran his hands carefully up and down Crowley’s sides. “I won’t push - we don’t have to. But I won’t lie and say I don’t want to.”

“You - you want to?”

Aziraphale hummed and nodded. “Very much so.”

And, well. Crowley would be damned the day he didn’t try to give his angel what he wanted.

 

*

 

It was a bit of a stumble. 

(Crowley didn’t ask how Aziraphale knew the way to the bedroom. Aziraphale just knew things, sometimes.)

They positively fell into bed in the end, Aziraphale laughing between kisses, Crowley trying not to ~~discorporate~~ die at the feel of Aziraphale’s body under him. Aziraphale didn’t let that happen, thankfully; he just reached up and buried his hands in Crowley’s hair and kissed him until he forgot about panicking. Crowley found that he fitted rather perfectly between Aziraphale’s parted legs, and judging by the sounds Aziraphale made he thought that, too. He ran his hands over Crowley’s back, fingers scrambling to push his shirt up as far as possible only to wander downwards again. They carefully settled on Crowley’s bum in the end, touch getting firmer when Crowley let out a strangled sound and bucked his hips. Aziraphale echoed the moan, and Crowley had to break their kiss and take a moment to remember how to think. He let his head drop on Aziraphale’s shoulder, breathing harshly.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, far too fondly, and started stroking his hair. “Dear, are you alright?”

“Ngh.”

“Would you like to stop?”

Crowley shook his head. “ _No_ , just - no. S’all good.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, overjoyed, and squirmed a little. “Then I would really like to get rid of my pants. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“You’re killing me,” Crowley muttered, but he sat up and scooted back a bit. He couldn’t help but run his eyes over Aziraphale - they had forgotten to turn on the light, but Crowley could make out enough for his mouth to get a little dry at the sight.

Alright, then. This was really happening.

Aziraphale moved to sit up, probably to take off his pants, but Crowley’s hands were faster. Also trembling a bit, maybe, but he still managed to open belt and button and zipper and not think too thoroughly about what he was doing. Even though he wanted to think about it, he wanted to think about all of this, he didn’t want to miss _anything_. But the panic was still there, creeping up under his skin right after desire, and he didn’t know how to hold it back. 

Aziraphale watched him closely, Crowley knew. He lifted his hips when Crowley began pulling his pants down, and didn’t say anything until Crowley put them aside.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked then, his voice soft. He’d propped himself up on his elbows. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

Fine? What was _fine_ , anyway? This was the very definition of fine, Crowley thought; he wanted nothing more than this. 

“Sure,” he said, aiming for nonchalance. “You’re gorgeous, by the way.”

Aziraphale sat up, smiling, and leaned in to cup Crowley’s face. “You’re one to talk,” he said warmly, and kissed him.

The rest was a blur - a blur of scrambling to get rid of clothes and touching warm, soft skin and _kissing_ and praises (god, the praises). Crowley fitted even better into Aziraphale’s lap, with Aziraphale’s hands wrapped around them both and stroking just perfectly, Aziraphale’s mouth on Crowley’s own and then just somewhere near Crowley’s own when kissing properly became too difficult. It didn’t last long, this whole thing, and maybe Crowley would have wondered why everyone made such a fuss about it if he hadn’t been busy falling apart, completely and irrevocably falling to pieces under Aziraphale’s touch. 

He ended up lying on top of Aziraphale, when they were both still breathing raggedly and trying to sort their thoughts. Aziraphale’s hands were absentmindedly stroking Crowley’s back, his nose was buried in Crowley’s hair, and it was all so nice and warm and comfortable that Crowley rather felt like he would fall asleep sometime soon.

“One of us should get us something to clean up,” Aziraphale said into Crowley’s hair, sounding not much more awake.

Crowley hummed in agreement.

“Crowley.”

“Ngk.”

“One of us should -”

“Yes, yes,” he muttered and then grumbled something reluctant, but he pushed himself up and moved to get out of bed. He was held up by Aziraphale’s hand on his arm, pulling him close and into a kiss. 

“Crowley,” he said, softly. “Are you alright?”

“Can you stop asking me that?”

“No.”

“I’m _fine._ ”

“It was not - too much?” Aziraphale asked, hesitant. One of his hands was playing with the short hairs on Crowley’s nape, and Crowley couldn’t keep himself from melting into it again.

“T’was good,” he murmured, nuzzling Aziraphale’s nose with his own and breathing out. He really was fine. It was a surprising feeling.

“Yes?” Aziraphale sounded hopeful. “It’s just, every time we tried - or, well, not tried, but every time something like this was about to happen, you -”

“It was _good_ , Az,” Crowley repeated. “Stop worrying.”

“I can’t help it,” Aziraphale said, pressing his smile to Crowley’s cheek. “You make it easy to worry about you, dear. I just want you to be happy. I think -” He paused, looking at Crowley for a moment. Then he said, “I’m going to be forward now, darling. Alright?”

“Should I be scared?” Crowley asked flatly. “Because if you -”

“I’m fairly sure that I love you. I do hope that’s no reason to be scared.”

The world stopped spinning.

Aziraphale made a sound that was both shocked and soothing and gathered Crowley up in his arms, holding him close until the world started spinning again, as if nothing at all had happened. As if Crowley hadn’t just heard something he’d been wanting to hear for thousands of years, as if Aziraphale hadn’t just said it as if it was the most simple and obvious thing in the world, as if Crowley hadn’t just learned that the eighth wonder of the world existed and that it was _right here_ , and also the goddamn best of them all.

They forgot about cleaning up.

 

*

 

Crowley woke up when a weight made the mattress sink a bit, right next to him. He ready to utter something reluctant and not all too kind when a warm hand settled on his shoulder and shook him gently.

“Crowley,” a voice whispered. “Crowley, I’m so sorry, I wish I wouldn’t have to wake you, but we have to talk. It’s urgent.”

Crowley grumbled a bit, but then he blinked his eyes open and found himself looking up at Aziraphale. The angel was kneeling on the bed next to him, with his waistcoat and bowtie and everything, not a single curl of hair out of place. He was just _kneeling_ there, and if the look in his eyes hadn’t been so desperate, Crowley might have spared a second to freak out over the fact that _Aziraphale_ was _in his bed._ As it was, he just propped himself on his elbows and stared him, fear and alarm already creeping through his veins.

“Angel? What’s wrong? Did you hear of -”

“No,” Aziraphale hurried to say, shaking his head. “No, not a word. It was quiet the whole night.” He briefly glanced at the window. “It’s almost morning, now.”

Crowley wasn’t sure if he could already be relieved. “Made me think they were already coming at us,” he said, rather weakly. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up properly.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeated, sounding earnest. “I didn’t mean to scare you - I don’t.” He huffed a small and nervous laugh. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think they will come for us at all.” 

He looked down at his lap - at his hands that were fiddling around with something, as Crowley saw now. A small, frayed piece of paper.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale met his eyes again. The sun had begun to rise, its soft rays falling through the window and catching in Aziraphale’s light hair. “I figured it out,” he said, smiling, and briefly lifted the paper. “I think I did, anyway. And if I am right, then - Crowley, then we may not have a lot of time left.”

Ah. No relief, then. Crowley’s lack of surprise didn’t make the cold sparks of horror dripping down his spine any more pleasant. He swallowed, even though his mouth was too dry. “Why? What does it mean? There has to be a way to - I mean, we can’t just give up _now_ , right, you said that yourself, so let's just  -”

“Shh,” Aziraphale interrupted him, and suddenly he set the scrap of paper aside, rather carelessly. He used his trembling hands to cup Crowley’s face instead, making him hold his gaze and his thoughts come to an abrupt halt. The hint of a smile was tugging at Aziraphale’s lips, still uncertain, still a touch hysteric, but not hopeless. “It’s not _bad news_ , Crowley. It isn’t. If I am right, then - then everything will be fine! Eventually. But I need... I need you to listen, darling, and first of all I need you to know something.”

 _Darling_ , Crowley repeated silently, utterly dumbstruck, then got even more anxious. “Angel, what’s going on? What do you mean?”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything.

Instead, Aziraphale climbed into his lap and kissed him.

When he pulled back again, after what couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, Crowley’s lips were still slack and parted, and he stared at the angel and wondered if he was going to discorporate. Right now. It felt like he would.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered, his hands on Crowley’s shoulders now. “I _do_ , Crowley, I promise. I’m sorry - I’m so sorry, for everything. It shouldn’t have taken me this long, I should have -”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley got out. He didn’t manage anything else. The entire world that just hadn’t ended had narrowed down to this, to the two of them, and it was more than he could handle.

“I need you to remember that,” Aziraphale said, tone as urgent as Crowley had never heard him, except once - _do something, or I - or I’ll never talk to you again._ “I need you to promise that you won’t forget, Crowley, please.” He touched his forehead to Crowley’s and closed his eyes, taking a few uneven breaths. “I couldn’t bear it if you did,” he said, quietly. “And I’m so - _so_ sorry. I love you. I need you to know that.”

Crowley did know, of course, or at least he had some kind of idea. It was hard not to have some kind of idea after six thousand years. He also knew that his angel had elevated denial to an art form.

The feeling that he was about to discorporate didn't fade, though.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said again, even quieter, and Crowley found himself confronted with the angel's desperate eyes again. That wasn't really fair.

"I do," he said after a moment, his voice hoarse. "Angel, I _know._ "

Aziraphale let out a rush of breath. "Don't forget it," he said - almost threatened, this was the angel who had picked up his flaming sword, ready to face the devil himself. "Don't ever forget it."

He kissed him again, and when Crowley laid back down again, with the angel on top of him, he'd almost forgotten that and why he should be worried.

 

*

 

When Crowley woke up this time, it wasn't because of a weight on the mattress, and there was no hand on his shoulder, either. In fact, he was alone; Aziraphale was gone. But the bed next to Crowley was still warm. He could hear sounds from somewhere in the flat.

He sat up, frowning. Something here was off.

Crowley slid out of bed and got dressed, frowning at the mess they had made last night, then made his way to the kitchen. It was indeed morning, sun falling through the windows much like it had earlier. But, when Crowley saw Aziraphale in the kitchen, apparently making tea, he spotted a dozen differences in just two seconds.

Aziraphale looked up when he entered, his smile bright and at the same time apologetic. His hair was in need of a comb, and both waistcoat and bowtie were gone.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said, his tone light and sincere. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you - I just couldn’t, ah, sleep any longer.”

Crowley nodded, staring at Aziraphale without really seeing him.

“I hope you don’t mind me using your kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea? I found - Crowley? Is something wrong?”

Crowley swallowed and shook his head, looking away. “No,” he said. “Everything’s fine. I just. ” He rubbed his eyes. “I just had another weird dream, that’s all.”

 

* * *

 

 

1Meaning that he didn’t freak out about it anymore, at least not outwardly. When you spent thousands of years pining after someone, it takes more than a handful of months to get used to such pioneering things as hand-holding.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be on vacation the next three weeks, so I'm afraid it'll be a while until the next chapter. Sorry about that! ❤


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was more than three weeks, and I'm terribly sorry for the wait! Thanks for holding the line! Uni starts again next week, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep up my weekly schedule, but I'll try my best.
> 
> And thanks so much for all the comments!! ❤❤❤I haven't gotten to replying to all of them yet, but I'll get to that!

Because he had to take care of the shop, Aziraphale left soon after a brief breakfast. He sent Crowley quite a few concerned looks, but Crowley barely even noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere - in the rumpled sheets of his bed, to be precise, even though he knew that he wouldn't find anything there. 

Still, as soon as Aziraphale was out of the door, Crowley rushed to the bedroom. He rummaged through the bedding, shook the blanket, looked beneath the pillows and inside the pillows, slipped his hands under the bed sheet. He even looked _under_ the goddamn bed.

Nothing.

Of course there was nothing. It had been months since the Not-End of the world, Crowley would have _noticed_ if there had been a piece of paper flying around somewhere. Right?

But where was it, then?

Crowley ended up sitting next to the bed under the floor, trying to make sense of what was happening. His thoughts kept wandering back to that dream he’d had - to that memory he’d had. Because that was what it had been, right? It hadn’t been _just_ a dream, it had felt too… too warm for that. Crowley remembered the soft sunlight falling through the window, the feel of fine fabric beneath his fingers, the look in Aziraphale’s eyes… Crowley’s _real_ dreams were never like that. They were harder, sharper, ready to cut him should he dare to come too close. (He always came too close.)

It was a memory, and that meant that Aziraphale had actually _said_ those things. That he had meant them. It meant that, even before he had forgotten everything, before he had been made human, he had _wanted this, too._  

Crowley wasn't ready to actually deal with _that_ information right now, so he just forced himself to stand up and get dressed, in the end.

He could hardly ask Aziraphale where he had put that piece of paper, but he needed - no, he _wanted_ to know what was up with that.

So there was only one thing he could do, really.

 

*

 

Anathema was still in pyjamas when she opened the door. She didn't look particularly happy to see Crowley, but that had probably more to do with the time. It wasn't even _that_ early anymore; the drive to Tadfield took longer, now that he paid at least some sort of attention to the speed limit since his life was in more or less constant danger. (Dealing with mortality is much easier when you were born with it.)

"You could at least text, you know," Anathema says, sounding like she wasn't impressed by the world and certainly not by Crowley.

"I don't have your number," Crowley said.

"I _gave_ you my number for this exact purpose."

"Okay, yes, look - does that matter right now? I'm here, and I have -"

"A problem?" She finished, turning and walking back into the cottage. "Wouldn't have guessed, really."

Crowley parroted her last sentence because he was panicking and therefore prone to childishness, but Anathema simply ignored him. She brought him to the kitchen and started making tea, which Crowley had absolutely no patience for at the moment, but every time he tried to speak, she hushed him and glared at him fiercely enough that he closed his mouth again.

It didn't take long until Newt shuffled into the kitchen, too, looking like he was still half asleep. He gave Anathema a sleepy kiss, then blinked at Crowley and quickly got nervous.

"The world isn't ending again, is it?"

"No," Anathema said, at the same time as Crowley shrugged and muttered, "Who knows?"

"It's not ending," Anathema assured Newt. "I think. Tea?"

"Er, yes," Newt said. "I can do that, you take care of -" He glanced at Crowley, smiling in that awkward way of his. Anathema gave him a fond look.

Crowley leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, and glared at them both. He couldn't stand it when people were all happy and domestic in front of him. "I _wish_ the world was ending," he grumbled.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a touch dramatic?" Anathema asked, sitting down across from him.

"No," Crowley lied. "Never." He ignored her skeptically raised brow and leaned forward again. "Look, I need to know what one of your prophecies said. From the book."

"We don't have it anymore," Newt said carefully, placing two cups with hot tea on the table. He got another one for himself, then sat down next to Anathema. "I mean, the book. And the other book."

"What other book?" Crowley looked at Anathema. "He's not making any sense. Why isn't he making sense?"

Anathema sighed. "There was a second book, with prophecies for _after_ the end of the world. We burned them both."

"Okay, fine, whatever," Crowley said, waving his hand. "I don't care. I just -" He paused. "Okay, wait, maybe I _do_ care. I need to know what that prophecy said, and -"

"I know the whole first book by heart," Anathema said, taking a sip of her tea. "Which one was it?"

"Yeah, uh, that's kind of the problem. No idea. Aziraphale got it when - when I tossed it to you, on the airbase, there was that scrap of paper that fell out of the book and Aziraphale _caught_ it, and later on the bench he was looking at it, but he wouldn’t show it to me - I remember that now, all this _stuff_ is coming back and I have _no_ idea what to - Anyway, he said it wasn’t important, and I was goddamn tired and didn’t want to push, so I didn’t, and we took the bus to my flat and I went to bed, but then I woke up - I dreamed about this last night, it was - really weird, but he told me some stuff and it has something to do with that prophecy, so I need to know what _the bloody thing said._ ”

Anathema and Newt both stared at him.

Crowley cleared his throat and moved his hands in a _yeah, try to make sense of that_ sort of gesture, and then took his own cup because he didn’t know what else to do. The tea wasn’t bad. Not as good as Aziraphale’s, but not bad. Newt wordlessly refilled Crowley’s cup when it was empty, and then pushed a biscuit in his direction for good measure. 

“I’m sorry,” Anathema said eventually, which wasn’t a good start. “But I don’t know what prophecy was missing, so I don’t - I mean, I can’t tell you. I don’t know.”

Crowley took a breath. “But you have to - you _said_ you know the whole bloody thing by heart, right? You’ve got to remember something that fits?”

“I can give you something else,” Anathema said.

She stood up and left the kitchen, leaving Crowley and Newt alone. They exchanged a glance and silently came to a mutual understanding that they would just wait for Anathema’s return in awkward silence. Crowley began nibbling at the biscuit.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long until Anathema came back. She sat down again and placed a small and very old looking envelope in front of Crowley, who stared at it for a long moment.

“It came with the other book,” Anathema explained. “It _is_ for you, right?”

Nodding slowly, Crowley took the envelope. There were a few words written on it, in unhurried handwriting:

_For the serpent_

_(_ _Do not burn!_ _)_

Crowley frowned, then quickly opened the envelope and pulled out a single scrap of paper, much like the one he’d remembered last night. Only that this one wasn’t scorched.

“What does it say?” Anathema asked, leaning forward.

“Nothing helpful,” Crowley said, scowling, and pushed the paper over to her. “If I _ever_ meet that bloody witch, I -”

“ _Thee will findeth his last wonder in thy ideal husband,”_ Anathema read out loud, ignoring Crowley’s angry grumbling. “Well, that’s not that hard to understand.” In reaction to Crowley’s skeptical look, she grinned and added, “Come on, I don’t have to tell you who your ideal husband is, do I?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. He grabbed one of the last two existing prophecies of Agnes Nutter, and a few minutes later left the cottage with it.

 

*

 

He spent the next days in his flat, brooding over that single bloody sentence. _Thee will findeth his last wonder in thy ideal husband_ ; the words were bustling about his head like some sort of metaphorical mosquitos that buzzed even louder and were ten times more annoying than _real_ mosquitos. Crowley couldn’t stand looking at them anymore, but they were all but etched into the inside of his eyelids already. He’d been staring at them for too long.

The last part of the prophecy might be clear, but it still didn’t make any sense. He could hardly look for something _inside_ Aziraphale, and what did that even mean? Aziraphale’s head? His memories, perhaps, but if Agnes Nutter had wanted to tell Crowley that Aziraphale needed to get his memories back for things to get better, she could have saved some ink. And what wonder was she talking about? A _last_ wonder, that could be Adam’s last act of Dark Power And Childish Pseudo-Wisdom. Thing was, Crowley already knew what stunt Adam had pulled, he didn’t need more information about that, and he certainly wouldn’t find it _in_ Aziraphale, who didn’t even know who Adam was at the moment, let alone that he’d changed the very way the world worked.

Hell, Crowley hated riddles. He’d always hated riddles. Why couldn’t people just say what they bloody _meant_ , why did everything need to be wrapped up in confusing words and pretentious oh-look-how-clever-I-am-phrases? Crowley was very good at thinking laterally, and not once in his life he’d tried to think _inside_ the box, but riddles like this? Several times he contemplated just setting it on fire.

Anathema texted him a few times, but he ignored her. Aziraphale texted and called, too, but Crowley ignored that as well, because he couldn’t possibly talk to him right now. He _knew_ now. He knew that this entire ordeal had been entirely pointless from the very start, that it would have _worked_ even without Adam’s not so little magic trick. 

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault, of course. Maybe it wasn’t even Adam’s; Crowley couldn’t say if the boy had known about that other prophecy or not. Adam had meant well, and Crowley wasn’t in the mood to be angry at him at the moment. He had other problems, namely _this_ prophecy and the fact that Aziraphale had, apparently, loved him. Crowley couldn’t think about that without feeling - sick, somehow. It felt like he had lost something that had meant everything to him, _again_. Not for the first time, Crowley thought how much easier everything would have been if Adam had taken his memories, too. 

But, then again, maybe a human Crowley and a human Aziraphale would have never even met. A bookseller from Soho and a maybe-lawyer from Mayfair? Not especially likely.

 

*

 

The doorbell rang. 

Crowley, who was sitting on the sofa with a bucket of ice cream in his lap, looked up, already scowling. He didn’t want the doorbell to ring. Why was it ringing, anyway? It was already dark outside.

The doorbell kept ringing.

With a groan, Crowley set the ice cream aside - on the sofa table, next to the scrap of paper with the prophecy - and stood up. He wasn’t wearing more than boxers, socks and a bathrobe, but whoever wanted to annoy him right now would simply have to deal with that. He wrapped the bathrobe tighter around himself because he was already freezing and shuffled out of the sitting room to open the door. He remembered too late that he could have used the interphone - good invention, that; allowed you to avoid seeing people you didn’t want to see -, so he just kept scowling and waited for the visitor to reach Crowley’s floor.

Crowley’s eyes widened a little when he realized that it was Aziraphale.

He looked tired, that was the first thing Crowley noticed. But Aziraphale often looked tired, so that wasn’t all too worrying. What was _very_ worrying was Aziraphale’s obvious irritation, which Crowley could see by the straight line of his mouth and the hard look in his eyes.

“Did you throw your phone out of the window?” Aziraphale asked in lieu of greeting. He came to stand in front of Crowley, who just stared at him, knowing that he had - maybe, possibly, _definitely_ \- fucked up.

“Er,” he said. “No.”

Judging by Aziraphale’s narrowing his eyes, that answer wasn’t a particularly good answer.

“It’s been eight days, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, somehow managing to sound reproachful and devastated at the same time. “I don’t even know how many times I called.”

Crowley couldn’t keep from wincing. “I know, I - I’m sorry, it was just - I was… busy.”

“Busy,” Aziraphale repeated. “I see.” He looked away, his lips pressed together, wringing his hands in front of his stomach. “Was it what I said, then?” He asked, sounding surprisingly (terribly) bitter. 

“What you said?” Crowley echoed, rather dumbly.

“ _Yes_ , Crowley, what I said. Or what we did? Was it too much?”

Oh.

Oh god.

Crowley had completely forgotten about _that_.

See, he’d been so busy freaking out the last days, had been so caught up in that dream he’d had, that he hadn’t even thought about what had happened _before_ that dream. Crowley stared at Aziraphale, remembering exactly what Aziraphale had said now - _I’m fairly sure that I love you. I do hope that’s no reason to be scared._

Right now, Crowley was definitely scared.

“Would you please say something?” Aziraphale said, pulling Crowley out of his thoughts. Only Aziraphale could be buzzing with anger and still stay polite, really.

Crowley didn’t know what to say. He only looked at Aziraphale, dumbfounded, confused, _lost_ , and after a few long seconds had ticked by, Aziraphale’s expression hardened.

“ _Fine_ , then,” he hissed, turning on his heels. 

He walked down the stairs with quick steps that echoed in the dark and empty stairwell. It was that sound that made Crowley register what was happening, and he dashed out of his flat, not much caring that the door fell shut behind him.

“Az, wait! C’mon, just a second!”

“ _What?_ ” Aziraphale snapped and spun around to Crowley again, making him stop so abruptly that he nearly stumbled.

Crowley managed to catch his balance and then stayed where he was, a few steps above Aziraphale. The former angel looked at him, expectant and definitely angry, and Crowley _still_ didn’t really know what to say, so he eventually settled, “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale took a breath. “You’re sorry. Of course, yes. Lovely. I’ll leave you to your _business_ now, I think.”

He turned away again, but Crowley took the last few steps and grabbed Aziraphale’s arm just in time. “No, please, I - I really am. I wasn’t ignoring you, I just - I was -” He searched for a word, and the only thing that fit without being a lie was, “Scared.”

Aziraphale pulled his arm out of Crowley’s grip. He still seemed angry, but the devastated look in his eyes had returned. “I can’t help you, Crowley,” he said, sounding like he had to force himself to stay calm. “I would love to, but if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I _can’t._ ”

Crowley swallowed. He felt dizzy. “I don’t know if I can. Tell you.”

“Well, me neither.”

“You wouldn’t believe a word of it.”

“Try me,” Aziraphale said, flippant, and Crowley just stared at him for the longest time.

Aziraphale, with his kind eyes and soft curls. Aziraphale, with his hideous sweaters and nervous smiles, and his nifty glasses and plump fingers. With his fondness for books and humanity, with his giddiness and hidden anger. _I’m fairly sure that I love you_ , and _I need you to promise that you won’t forget, Crowley, please_. There wasn’t much of a difference, really.

“Okay,” Crowley said. His voice was shaking just the tiniest bit. “Okay.”

Aziraphale blinked, but didn’t say anything.

Crowley slipped his hand into the pocket of his robe, then remembered that the slip with the prophecy was still on the sofa table. “Oh,” he said.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, sounding much more careful now.

Crowley kept staring at him. He swallowed. “Just. Ngh. Two things.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened, just the tiniest bit. “Yes?”

“I am,” Crowley began, stopped, had to try again, “I’m fairly sure that I’m in love with you, too.”

Aziraphale sighed, and the last hint of anger faded from his eyes. “I _know_ , Crowley,” he said and took Crowley’s hands. He immediately frowned, covering one of Crowley’s hands with both of his own. “God, darling, you’re freezing cold.”

“It’s October,” Crowley said flatly. It was getting colder, and he’d never handled that well. “The other thing.”

Aziraphale looked at him. He seemed worried now.

“I, uh. Kind of locked myself out.”

With another sigh, Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand and took off his scarf. He wrapped it around Crowley’s neck and, for the first time this evening, smiled. “You can come with me.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry my posting schedule is such a mess at the moment! I'm afraid it won't stop being a mess until after Christmas, because uni is hell right now. But thanks so much for holding the line and for all the lovely comments, I'm honestly blown away by it all! I hope y'all will keep enjoying this story!! ❤ (We're nearing the end, by the way. ;) )

(Let's take a look at the other side, shall we?

Just this once.)

 

*

 

Crowley was a mess, the poor dear. That wasn't a particularly new development, of course, but still worthy worrying about. And since the man who knew himself as Adam Zacharias Fell was very, very good at worrying, he did just that. It was a bit of a deliberate decision - after all, he had been angry and upset the whole past week, and was already tired of it at this point. Worrying was better.

Crowley was silent in the car. He looked out of the window - which could have used a wash, by the way; that had to be done at some point - and stayed still, his chin propped up on his hand. His other hand was in his lap, unmoving, and Az[1] couldn't help but wonder how he _did_ that. Or why, for that matter.

He knew that Crowley was nervous. The tell-tale tension of his shoulders - god, his whole body - and the distant look in his eyes made it obvious. But Crowley was a master of that, somehow - always appearing all in all relaxed when he was in fact anything but. He liked dismissing things and feelings (especially feelings) with a shrug and some sarcasm-coated words. This stillness occured when he was brooding, or trying not to fall apart, or both. He held himself differently when he was actually at ease.

Az had been able to tell the difference from the very start.

He himself couldn’t keep from fidgeting. He could _never_ keep from fidgeting when he was worried. Like every time, he gave up trying after a few minutes and just let his fingertips tap on the wheel in a rather unsteady rhythm. Every now and then he glanced at Crowley, but glancing at Crowley made it difficult to concentrate on the street, and concentrating on the street was necessary since he did not want to crash the car. Goodness, he hated driving.

Az wasn’t sure whether it had been a good idea or not, coming to Crowley so late in the evening that it could very well be considered the middle of the night. He had wanted to wait and let Crowley call him first this time, but as it turned out, Az wasn’t a patient man when it came to this. He had also started to worry, of course. He _knew_ that Crowley was… in a bit of a bad place at the moment. He also didn’t have any other friends, nobody else who looked after him, so Az hadn’t had a real choice, anyway. Crowley could have been _sick_ without anyone there to bring him tea and soup and really, the mere thought had been unacceptable.

And, fine, maybe Crowley wasn't sick - at least not physically -, but how long would it have taken him to finally pick up his phone? Another week, or two? Earlier he had looked at Az as if he had completely forgotten about him.

Az made himself stop glancing at Crowley. The anger was coming back, fueled by hurt, and he was far too tired to be angry.

He hadn't slept in almost three days now.

When he parked his Beetle directly in front of his house, he gave Crowley a warning look just in case he wanted to berate Az that parking here was not allowed, just like Az did every time the Bentley stopped here. Thankfully, Crowley stayed silent and just got out of the car. He absently wrapped his arms around himself, shivering, and Az hurried to lock the car and fish his keys out of his pockets. Bare feet on the pavement in Soho, for God's sake, and in _October._  

“Come on in, then,” Az said with a soft sigh, and Crowley quickly slipped through the open door into the bookshop.

He immediately made his way to the backroom and planted himself on the sofa. He did that often, and Az only rarely tried to get him to take the stairs up to the flat. Crowley seemed more comfortable in the backroom, so Az went with it, even though he couldn't really understand the reasons. He didn't understand a lot of things about Crowley, though, so it was a rather insignificant point on a long and not at all insignificant list.

Az left him there and went upstairs to put the kettle on, silently glad to have a moment to himself. As much as he loved it, he still wasn't completely used to, well - to the existence of another person in his own space. Bone-deep loneliness was rather hard to shake off, he found. You got fond of it after some time, which was probably the most dangerous thing about it.

While the tea was brewing, Az rifled through his wardrobe in search for clothes Crowley wouldn't look all too ridiculous in. Crowley didn't like looking ridiculous in clothes. Not that his own style wasn't its own kind of ridiculousness, but every time Az commented on that, Crowley started pouting. 

Crowley was still sitting on the sofa when Az joined him, carrying two cups of tea in his hands and the clothes under his arm. He set the cups aside and handed Crowley the jumper. Crowley wrinkled his nose at it a little, but he did shrug off his dressing gown and put on both the jumper and the woolen socks without any grumbling. Az sat down in his armchair and pointedly did not look at Crowley’s bare chest; this was _really_ not the time for things like that. Besides, Crowley looked more uncomfortable than Az had ever seen him, and that alone was saying a lot.

Az picked up his cup and looked into his tea, swirling it around a bit. They really made quite the pair, didn’t they? A man who knew too much, and a liar. That would be a nice title for a book, almost.

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

Az glanced up, frowning, then took a sip of his tea. “You neither,” he said, determined not to discuss this particular topic right now. 

He hadn’t been sleeping because the woman next door was very sick and contemplated putting an end to her misery herself. Next week he wouldn’t be sleeping because somebody’s dog or grandmother had died, and the week after that it could be an abused teenager walking into his shop or a heartbroken young cashier or a bus driver who had never been gifted flowers in their life. London was big and filled to the brim with people who were in all kinds of pain, and the smallest things could make Az so upset that he’d rather spend the whole night reading than tossing and turning in bed.

It had always been like that.

Crowley squirmed around in his seat and eventually pulled up his legs to wrap his arms around his knees. His hair was a mess. The red strands had gotten long enough to fall into his eyes and even curl a little, but he didn’t fuss over it like he usually did. _That_ was worrying. Az took sip after sip and waited for the other to speak up. 

Crowley didn’t, of course.

“Well?” Az prompted after a while. It came out stiffer then he would have liked, so he cleared his throat and tried to sound softer when he added, “We don’t have to do this tonight, Crowley. You could sleep first, if you’d like, or -”

“No,” Crowley cut in. “I just - I’ve no idea where to start, and you won’t bloody believe me anyway.”

“Please stop saying that. If you promise to tell the truth, of course I’ll believe you.”

Crowley met his gaze. The look in his brown eyes was uncertain, and more than just a little reluctant. He didn’t want to talk about this - not because he didn’t want Az to know, but because he was scared of what would happen _if_ he knew. He’d been scared of that since the beginning.

“I won’t judge,” Az said, after too many moments of silence. 

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can, and I am,” Az insisted, sighing.

See, this was exactly what Crowley didn’t understand. Couldn’t, really, because Az didn’t even understand it _himself._

He was very good at reading people, and he liked making sense of them. He had to make sense of them, because he didn’t neatly file them away in one of the many folders in his head he would simply lose his mind. It wasn’t a matter of pigeonholing everybody he met, he just liked to know who he was dealing with. He knew so many things about so many people, but that didn’t tell him what kind of person they were, so he had to figure that out himself. 

His mother had been _distant._ His brother was _lawful_ , his other siblings _ethical_ , _ruthless_ , _aspiring._ Elsie was _sincere_ , and Anya _headstrong_ , and Crowley - 

Crowley was _familiar._ That was the only word Az could come up with, even though it didn’t say anything about Crowley himself. It still said everything, though. _Familiar._

Az liked things that were familiar. They gave him a sense of stability, and since it was very easy for him to feel unstable, he held onto those things - his favourite mug and the books he kept upstairs, his tartan bow-ties and the flower Crowley had given him, though it had started withering many weeks ago. Crowley was one of those things, even though he wasn’t a thing. He was a person. Az had never met a _familiar_ person before. 

The thing was this: Familiarity led to trust. Trust, even if broken, could lead to forgiveness. And all of that together led to acceptance and, in the end, love. The unconditional kind Az had read about so often, the difficult kind he’d read about even more often, this utterly confusing and senseless kind he had never read about before.

“I lied,” Crowley started.

“I know,” Az said. “About what?”

“What - What do you _mean_ you know, you can’t -”

“Crowley,” Az interrupted and looked up. Crowley looked back at him, shocked and terrified. It could have been endearing if it hadn’t been heartbreaking. “Darling, you are not exactly the best liar I have ever met.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, which meant something along the lines of _I beg your bloody pardon_ in Crowley-language. (Az had figured that one out pretty quickly. By now, he kept a mental list of the various sounds Crowley made in various situations[2])

“We can pretend that I don’t know,” Az offered. He couldn’t keep himself from sounding a little flippant. “Would that make it easier?”

Crowley huffed a joyless laugh that almost made Az wince. Crowley was so _bitter_ sometimes. 

“So this whole time you knew, and you _never once_ -”

“I don’t think you get to be angry with me for not telling you that I knew that you were lying,” Az said, glaring at Crowley over the edge of his cup. “Not when _you_ have been lying to me in the first place.”

Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it again. After a moment, he deflated a little. “Yes. Right.”

“I thought so,” Az said, his voice clipped now, and took a last sip of tea before he put his cup on the table. He immediately regretted it; he had no idea what to do with his hands now. He ended up folding them in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, finally, a little less reluctant and much sadder.

“I know, “ Az said again.

“You know far too much.”

“I _know_ , but in my defense, you were not being as subtle as you apparently think!”

Crowley stared at him, face going blank like it always did when he was starting to panic. It didn’t take two seconds until Az felt bad for snapping at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely. “I didn’t mean to - well, I did, but I am sorry, and I _am_ trying to stay calm, I just -”

“I wasn’t born in Tadfield,” Crowley blurted out, and while that didn’t exactly take Az by surprise, he still didn’t muster a reply for a moment.

“Well,” he said then, “I -”

“If you say _you knew_ , I’m going to lose it.”

“I _assumed_ it,” Az said, giving Crowley a look. “More or less, at least. I assumed that something about that story wasn’t quite right.” He frowned. “I thought it might have something to do with your trauma, though.”

Crowley stared at him like Az had spontaneously grown another pair of eyes. “My trauma.”

Oh. Az hadn’t actually meant to broach that topic, at least not like this. Well, too late now. “Yes,” he said, very carefully. “I mean - it is rather obvious, love. You shied away from me so often, and we both know how anxious you get now and then. Obviously I don’t know what exactly happened, but I thought your father might -”

“I don’t have a father.”

Az blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t,” Crowley said again, “have a father.”

“Oh.” Az frowned. “So the… your father wanting you to become a lawyer, too, that was -”

“Lying. I was lying. Well, not lying, more making things up because I didn’t have a real choice, but it wasn’t all _untrue_ , either, ‘cause some of it - you’d call it metaphors and allegories and other clever things, but I, uh. Yeah, anyway, I was making shit up, and I’m _sorry_ , but -”

“Crowley, for Heaven’s sake, calm down.”

Crowley pressed his lips together. Az tried to make sense of what he had said, and failed. Nothing about this _made_ sense.

“Why are _you_ so calm?” Crowley asked after a moment, his voice a little weak.

“I’m not calm,” Az told him absently. “I am very tired and very confused and still waiting for you to give me a proper explanation.”

Crowley just stared at him.

Eventually, Az sighed. He brought a hand up to rub at his eyes. “Alright, then, let’s - let’s start in the beginning, shall we?” He awaited Crowley’s nod, then said, “You did not know your father, then?”

Crowley’s shoulders sagged a little, and the guilt and fear on his face made room for resignation. “You don’t understand,” he said quietly.

“Then explain it to me, Crowley,” Az replied, as softly as he could. “I am trying to understand, my dear, but you have to meet me half-way.”

Crowley just looked at him for a while. His hands finally started fidgeting. That was almost easier to watch than him trying to keep still. “I don’t have a father,” he repeated. “I - I had a mother, though, in the - well, in _some_ sense of the word. You and me, we’ve got - the same, actually.”

Az opened his mouth, but he couldn’t say anything. He stared, then finally said, “Crowley. Crowley, please don’t tell me that we have the same mother, because then I might just -”

“No! No, ngk, no, not like _that_ , I just -” Crowley let out a frustrated sound and stood up, starting to pace. “I _knew_ this wouldn’t fucking work, I - I don’t how to explain, I _can’t_ explain. You’ll think I’ve lost my mind!”

“I don’t think that, Crowley,” Az said, gently. “I mean, I wondered about that in the beginning, and you do seem a little, well, delusional, but I’m sure it has a logical -”

“I’m not _delusional,_ Aziraphale, I am _the only one of us_ who remembers, and it’s -” He stopped, eyes widening in sheer panic. He looked like he was about to flee the room.

“Ah,” Az said. He felt a little dizzy, suddenly. “So that _was_ you, then. I’d wondered.”

Crowley stayed exactly where he was, as if frozen in place. “What?”

“The phone call,” Az murmured, frowning as he remembered. “The day we saw each other for the first time. I wasn’t entirely sure… What did you call me?”

Crowley didn’t reply. His hands were trembling. “You never said. You never -”

“I thought we had established that you don’t get to -”

“I am not _accusing you!_ ” Crowley shouted, loudly enough that Az flinched in surprise. “I just don’t bloody get it! How can you - how can you _remember that_ and say I seem ‘a little delusional’ and _know_ that I’ve been _goddamn_ lying to you and not - You should’ve thrown me out weeks ago! Months! Every other human would have!”

“I don’t know,” Az said, with an amount of honesty that surprised even himself. Words like _familiarity_ and _trust_ and _love_ kept circling in his thoughts, but he didn’t say any of them. He just blinked a few times, rather horribly confused now. “I really don’t know, dear boy.”

Silence, for a few minutes.

Then, Crowley let out a rush of breath he had apparently been holding. He covered his face with his hands for a second, wiping his eyes, then let them sink to his sides again. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. So, this doesn’t - it doesn’t work like this, we have to - ngh. I have something -” He patted the pockets of his pyjama pants and cursed under his breath. “Shit, I - okay. Right, I don’t have it here, but I can -”

He whirled around and nearly swiped some things off Az’ desk in his hurry. He bent over a notepad and scribbled something down, and Az just sat in his chair and watched, feeling a little detached from it all. What had Crowley called him? Az couldn’t get a hold on the word, on the name, and it annoyed him immensely. 

“Here,” Crowley said, holding out a piece of paper and almost shoving it into Az’ face in the process.

Az frowned and took it from him, squinting in the dim light to read it. He didn’t have his reading glasses, so he wasn’t _entirely_ sure, but -

“Crowley,” he said, flatly. “Do you really think this is the right time for a proposal?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley replied. He pointed at the slip of paper. “This is - it’ll help, okay? I’ve no clue how, exactly, but - we’ll figure something out. I just don’t know what it means, so please - please just -” He took a breath. The look in his eyes was pained, and open. Honest. “Please just trust me right now, okay? Can you - can you do that?”

“Of course,” Az said, without thinking. He looked back at the single sentence Crowley had written, in his messy handwriting. He had to squint at it a little to read it; he wasn't wearing his glasses. “But please tell me you didn’t do anything to my books.”

“What?”

Az sighed and lifted the paper, pointing at the last three words. “ _Thee will findeth his last wonder in thy ideal husband_ ,” he recited. “ _An Ideal Husband_ , Crowley. This is a nod to Wilde, isn’t it?”

Crowley’s mouth fell open. He didn’t close it again for a few seconds. “Wilde,” he echoed then.

“It’s one of his plays, from 1895. I always quite liked it.” He frowned at the paper, reading the sentence again. “What is this, a riddle?”

Crowley didn’t even seem to hear him. “Of course it’s bloody Wilde,” he breathed. “I think I - oh. I think I just understood.”

“Wonderful,” Az said. He was getting a little tired of this. “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to understand this, too.”

“The last wonder,” Crowley said, as if that explained anything. “Not Adam’s, not Her’s - _yours._ Dammit, I  - okay, how many editions do you have?”

“Of the play?”

Crowley was already dashing out of the room, and before he did anything _else_ to the books, Az hurried up and followed him. “Two,” he said, which was a lie. “They’re very new, though. Did you put anything -”

“Not me,” Crowley interrupted, but didn’t elaborate. “Where?”

Az sighed and turned on the light, then led the way to the right corner of his shop. “Here,” he said, pulling the two books out of the shelves. Crowley immediately took one of them and flicked through the pages, then did the same with the other. 

They were perfectly fine books. Of course they were, they were in _Az’_ bookshop. Crowley still looked like they had broken his heart in two.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered, staring at the books in something akin to horror.

“Crowley -” Az tried, but was promptly interrupted.

“No. No, this is - this is the only thing that makes sense, so it has to…” Crowley looked up, back at Az. “You really don’t have another?”

Az hesitated. “Well. Not… as such.”

“Angel _._ ”

 _Damn that word,_ Az thought. It always made him feel warm and soft all over, and he could hardly say no to Crowley when he called him that. 

With another sigh, he returned the books to the shelves and then turned. “Upstairs,” he said, frowning at Crowley and himself and possibly also at the entire world.

Crowley followed him upstairs, and he followed him to the door next to the sitting room. Az stretched and procured the key from where it had been waiting on the top of the door frame, then opened the door. He stepped aside so that Crowley could take a look. Crowley did, and then looked at Az, who squirmed a little under his gaze.

“You said this was a storage room,” Crowley said.

“Well,” Az replied primly and strode into his own very small and very secret library. “Liars, both of us, aren’t we?” He switched on the light and carefully let his fingers wander over the backs of the books he loved most, more than everything else[3] “But it isn’t _not_ a storage room, is it? So _I_ didn’t even really lie.”

“Yeah, angel, I got it. I said I was sorry.”

“I still don’t understand,” Az said, a tad sulkily. But he did crouch in front of one of the shelves in the tiny room and shortly after held a first edition of _An Ideal Husband_ in his hands. 

Like all the other books in this room, it was signed. 

He stood up and this time looked through the book himself. This was rather ridiculous. Nobody else knew that this room even existed. _Crowley_ hadn’t known that this room existed, so he couldn’t have put anything into -

“Oh,” Az said, and stared at the envelope he’d found.

“What?” Crowley urged, looking over his shoulder. “What is it?”

Az couldn’t reply. That was one of his own envelopes. He kept them downstairs in his desk. But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was that there, on the envelope, written in a handwriting that was much less messy than Crowley’s and achingly familiar, was his name: _Mr. Fell._

“Oh,” Crowley echoed.

Az swallowed and all but tore it open, finding himself confronted with an entire letter in _his own handwriting._ There was also something else, but Crowley took the slip of paper from him as soon as he saw it. Az didn’t even notice.

 _Dear Mr. Fell,_ the letter read. _This is rather odd, isn't it? I need to be certain, and I'm afraid this is the only way, so please forgive me. Now, if I am right, this will probably be rather spooky, but I promise that everything is perfectly alright. You do not have to be afraid. I hope that Crowley is there with you. He always is - he always was, and that is already the most important thing you have to know._

It went on. 

And on.

And on.

He read the letter several times, with Crowley staring at it over his shoulder. He didn’t understand a word it said, and at the same time it made a horrible amount of sense.

There was a hand on his shoulder. “Angel. Hey. You okay?”

“I think I need to sit down,” Aziraphale said.

 

* * *

 

1A certain angel would probably bristle at the use of that nickname, but since Adam Zacharias Fell had heard the name Aziraphale only once before and every other option does not exactly ring true, we will go with Az for now.[return to text]

2Unbeknownst to him, that list had already been in his head Before. [return to text]

3Well, more than almost everything else. [return to text]


	17. Chapter 17

“Could you repeat that?”

“What exactly?”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Yes. Please.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who was lying on the sofa in his living room. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, fiddling around with the - already crinkled - letter he had written to himself with one hand while biting at and trying to keep himself from biting at the nail of his left thumb.

Crowley knew that habit, from very long ago. Aziraphale was nervous by nature, and before he'd started having his hands manicured once a week, his nails had been a mess.

“Well,” Crowley said. He himself was sitting on the floor right next to the sofa, had been sitting there for quite a while now. His voice was a little rough. He cleared his throat and looked away, then at Aziraphale again; he couldn't stand not looking at him. “The first time we met, it was in Eden.”

“Eden,” Aziraphale repeated, sounding like he wasn't sure if he liked the taste of the word. “ _The_ Eden. The garden Eden. From the bible.”

“Yes, that's the one.”

Aziraphale let go of his thumb and put his hand on his stomach so that it could work even more crinkles into the letter. He stayed quiet for a moment, and Crowley let him think. They had gone through everything once already - well, more or less everything. Crowley had left out the most important stuff, sort of, but he kept telling himself that Aziraphale needed to know the _basic_ things first. Details about the terrific chaos that was their relationship could come… well. Later. As it was, he doubted that Aziraphale had understood even half of everything Crowley had told him so far, anyway. Crowley had never been very structured when telling a story, and Aziraphale was so confused at the moment that he needed more time to make sense of things. Also, they were at their second bottle of wine, and since Aziraphale had been the one to drink most of it - Crowley’s first glass was still half full -, he was already a little woozy.

The letter hadn't been particularly helpful, in the end. It was too short, for one thing - Aziraphale hadn't had enough time. It told the most important things, about the general existence of angels and demons and everything that implied, and that there had been an End of the World that hadn't actually been the _end_ of the _world._ But the simple mentioning of that wasn't _enough._ Crowley had had to explain it all again. But at least Aziraphale had also written down the fact that Crowley could be trusted, no matter what, and then, at the end of the letter: _Crowley will tell you everything else._

Which, yes. Thanks so much, Aziraphale.

Oh, Crowley wasn't angry with him. He couldn't be, really, now that he finally understood what exactly had happened.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said finally. “Go on.”

Crowley nodded. “Okay, so - uh, there were Adam and Eve, and I had -”

“Just one thing,” Aziraphale interrupted. “That was the beginning of the world, yes? And it - it _did_ happen like, well, like it is written? Exactly like that?”

“Er. More or less, yeah.”

Aziraphale turned his head to look at Crowley. He seemed so very tired, but his eyes were clear and sharp. “ _More or less?_ What does that mean?”

“It means -” Crowley sighed and rubbed his neck. “It means, I don't really _know._ It wasn't like I was there. Before the whole Earth thing, there was the war, and my side was kind of busy with having lost and stuff, so I didn't really know that there _was_ an Earth until they sent me up here.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I see,” he said after a minute or two or five, and it sounded like he didn't see anything at all. “What about me? What did I do, before - before Earth? Was I - in that _war_?” Before Crowley could even open his mouth, Aziraphale added, “When we say _the war_ , we are speaking of the rebellion, yes? That is, if you call it a rebellion -”

“Yes, we're speaking of that,” Crowley said, before Aziraphale got caught up in semantics. “And you didn't exist during that.”

“I didn't exist,” Aziraphale said very slowly.

“You were very new,” Crowley explained, “in Eden. You were - _made_ for that job, I think.”

“For guarding the Garden of Eden.”

“Yes.”

“With that flaming sword you mentioned.”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale propped himself up on his elbows to stare at Crowley with a little more emphasis. “Have you _looked_ at me? I am the _exact_ opposite of a soldier. I am - a bookshop owner, I'm _soft_ , I could never - Crowley, I don’t even _believe_ in god.”

“You were one of the best they had,” Crowley said, feeling rather helpless. “And you weren’t - I mean, yeah, of course you were a soldier in a sense, but. You were a protector, first of all. Okay? You did - it was a good thing. You were good at it.”

Aziraphale didn't seem convinced. “If you say so."

Crowley frowned at the slip of paper he himself was holding in his hands. “You don’t believe me.”

“No, I _do._ ” Aziraphale sighed and dropped back onto the sofa, looking up at the ceiling again. “I do. And I thought… For a moment there, after reading the letter, I thought…” He lifted his hand to rub at his eyes. “God, I don't know what I thought.”

Crowley bit his lip, thinking. “You're tired,” he finally said. “Maybe we should - continue this tomorrow, eh?”

Aziraphale considered that for a moment, then sighed again. “Yes, that might be a good idea.”

Crowley nodded and got up. He left the prophecy on the sofa table because he had no pocket to stuff it into. “Okay, then, I. Uh. I’ll -”

“You are not going to leave me alone now,” Aziraphale told him. “Don’t even consider it.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “Nng. Okay.”

Aziraphale flung his feet off the sofa and sat up, rather carefully. He blinked a few times. 

“You alright?”

Aziraphale hummed. “A little dizzy. I haven’t slept in…” He paused, probably doing the math, and then raised his brows in that exasperatedly resigned way of his. “Three days?” He frowned. “Well, that makes sense now, I suppose. Did I even sleep when - before?”

“Not really.” Crowley offered Aziraphale his hand, and thankfully Aziraphale took it and let himself be helped up and then steered to the bedroom.

“Then it is entirely unfair that I need to sleep now,” Aziraphale declared. “Actually, everything about this is entirely unfair.”

Crowley had no idea what to say to that, so he just ended up muttering, “Yeah, I know.”

“Why do _you_ have no trouble sleeping?”

“Because I’ve got the practice you’re lacking,” Crowley said, opening the bedroom door. “I once slept for an entire century. Do you want me to -”

“An _entire_ century?” Aziraphale interrupted him. “Good lord. Why?”

“Long story. Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale huffed and took Crowley’s hand again, dragging him into the bedroom.

He then proceeded to change into his sleeping clothes while Crowley sat on the edge of the bed and focused on his knees. It didn't take long until Aziraphale sat down next to them, and Crowley was sure that, if God had been still somewhere up there - or down there or all around there, who knew where She had liked to spend her time -, She'd probably laugh about them. What a sight they made, Aziraphale with his adorably horrible tartan pyjamas and Crowley with those fuzzy socks and a jumper that was too saggy around his middle and too short for his arms, and how they sat there and stared at nothing and everything for a while because neither of them had even the slightest idea what to say.

“Thank you,” was what Aziraphale decided on in the end, his voice oddly small. “I know that there are a million things I still don't _understand_ , but - thank you, Crowley. For telling me.”

“Don't thank me yet,” Crowley told his knees. “This will make everything like, a thousand times more complicated.”

“My love, it was always complicated,” Aziraphale said. He rested his forehead on Crowley's shoulder, carefully breathing out. “For you, anyway. I can't imagine how… how difficult it was. Well, still is, I assume. And I am terribly sorry, Crowley, for forgetting.”

And what to say to that? It was an altogether unnecessary apology, as far as Crowley was concerned, so he should probably just dismiss it, but it - it caught him off guard, a bit. Also his brain might have been too hung up on the _my love_ to form proper words at the moment, so he ended up just sitting there for a while, utterly clue- and useless. The better part of him hadn’t even yet figured out how to deal with the fact that Aziraphale actually seemed to _believe_ him. That he trusted him, so easily. Well, not easily - it was all far too much for him, Crowley knew. He could tell. When Aziraphale was less drunk and more awake he would freak out about this, and Crowley was already scared of that moment. But for now he had a boyfriend to comfort, and also not the foggiest notion how to do that.

“It's not your fault, angel,” he got out in the end, and that was also very useless, but suddenly Aziraphale was huffing a soft and breathy laugh into Crowley's bony shoulder.

“I thought it was so sweet,” he said, straightening again. His tired eyes crinkle with the half of a tired smile. “A very lovely term of endearment, but -”

“It _is_ ,” Crowley insisted. “Just a very uncreative one.”

The smile turned into a sadder one, and Aziraphale looked away. “I'm not an angel, Crowley.”

Crowley's throat tightened. “Not anymore, no.”

“No, I - I don't think I _want_ to be one. The sheer responsibility of that, I couldn't handle it.”

“You were never the most dutiful angel,” Crowley said quietly. “You weren’t - what they wanted you to be. But you - you were _good._ You are. Heaven didn't - they didn't deserve you up there.”

“I can hardly imagine -”

“No. No, trust me on this, I -” Crowley cut himself off. A leap of faith; he took Aziraphale's hand, relieved when his fingers returned the pressure readily, greedily. “Look, I was in Spain once, and everything there was so awful that I got horribly sloshed and took years to sleep it off. But you - you didn't do that sort of thing. Never did. I got angry with you sometimes, because you didn't try to just - stop these sort of things, you know. But now I…” Crowley shrugged and squeezed Aziraphale's hand. “I think you were just too busy taking care of the soldiers that you didn't have time to try and stop the wars. You know what I mean?”

Aziraphale looked up and met Crowley's eyes, and after a few seconds he sighed and muttered, “Small acts of kindness, hm?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Crowley nodded and tried for a bright smile, not sure if he succeeded in that or not. “That was you, all over. And that hasn't changed a bit, right? I mean, just look at Elsie and, I don't know, probably half of blasted Soho.”

Aziraphale hummed, absently fiddling around with the hem of his shirt. Crowley had no clue what was going on in the bookseller's head. Eventually, Aziraphale asked, “What do you have against Spain?”

“Huh?”

“You said -”

“Oh, right, no. Not Spain itself, just. The Spanish Inquisition.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “I see.”

He looked at Crowley, then, and the blue of his eyes now seemed very sad. He looked miserable, and Crowley couldn't stand it. The mere sight made his chest tighten in that by now so familiar way and it was honestly no surprise; he'd been on the verge of a full-blown panic for hours. Days, maybe. But he couldn't freak out now, because this wasn't - it wasn't about _him._

“Come on,” he said finally, knowing that his voice was less than three words away from breaking and unable to do anything about it. “Let's - let's get you comfortable, alright?”

Aziraphale sighed and looked at his bed, wrinkling his nose. “Maybe I could -”

“Nope. No. Angel. You're going to sleep, okay? A bit. And I -”

“Stay,” Aziraphale filled in, giving Crowley a minor glare as he reluctantly crawled into bed. “You're going to stay right here.” A second passed, then a brief flicker of guilt scurried over Aziraphale's face and he added, “Please.”

Crowley felt like he was about to have a very impressive and very counterproductive nervous breakdown, but he swallowed it all down and said, "Wasn't planning to go anywhere, Az."

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, looking expectant enough that Crowley needed only a few seconds to force his frozen mess of a body to move.

He switched off the lamp on the bedside table and laid down next to Aziraphale, who hesitated only a moment before he scooted closer and hid his face against Crowley's shoulder.

“Also,” he said, his voice a little muffled, “don't call me that, please.”

Crowley was busy telling his body that this was not the right time for a heart attack, so he had no idea what Aziraphale was on about. “What?”

“ _Az_ ,” Aziraphale clarified. “I get why you insisted on that, but I do believe it isn't necessary anymore.” He paused, then, “It's Aziraphale, yes? Is it pronounced like that?”

Crowley closed his eyes and turned his head, burying his nose in Aziraphale's hair. He wasn't going to freak out now, he wasn't. No tears, either. None at all.

“Yes,” he muttered into Aziraphale's curls. “Exactly like that.”

 

*

 

Surprisingly, Aziraphale woke Crowley only once that night, not even two hours after they had gone to bed.

“Crowley. So sorry, my darling, but I have a question.”

Crowley heaved a sigh and kept his eyes closed. “Mhh. ‘Kay. Shoot.”

“Did you know Shakespeare?”

At that, Crowley did open one eye to peer at Aziraphale. “S’just like you to concentrate on bloody Shakespeare.”

“Did you?” Aziraphale asked, fidgeting around. 

Crowley couldn’t see much more than the other’s silhouette in the dark room, so he closed his eyes again. “Mh-hm. Did. You dragged me to all of the premieres."[1]

It was silent for a few seconds, then Aziraphale said, voice rising in pitch, " _I_ knew _Shakespeare?”_

“Angel, where do y’think all those signed first editions you’ve got came from, huh?”

“Goodness,” Aziraphale said.

“Mhh.”

“Crowley.”

“Yes?”

“Did I know Oscar Wilde?”

“Yeah. A bit too intimately.”

“Good gracious, _really?_ ”

“Angel. Go to sleep.”

 

*

 

When Crowley woke up in the very, very late morning, Aziraphale was still asleep. Which was nothing short of a wonder, but also not a real surprise, considering how exhausted he'd been.

In his sleep, Crowley had somehow managed to entangle his limbs with Aziraphale's so effectively that he wasn't even sure where his limbs _were_ right now, so he tried to disentangle them as carefully as he could.

Naturally, Aziraphale was a light sleeper and woke up in the process. Crowley stilled the second Aziraphale stirred and was ready to blurt out a string of apologies, but then Aziraphale blinked his eyes open and looked at him in such utter confusion that Crowley forgot what he’d wanted to apologise for. 

_Oh no, please, don’t have forgotten it all again,_ please, _I -_

“Not a dream, then,” Aziraphale said, or rather slurred; it sounded like at least his voice was still half asleep. His eyes fell closed again.

At first, Crowley was relieved, but then he noticed that, oh, Aziraphale didn’t look relieved at all, in fact he looked like he had thought he’d dreamed about his favourite restaurant being closed and then found that it hadn’t been a dream at all. Suddenly Crowley thought that reinvoked amnesia might have been the better option compared to this, and if not for the impossibility of leaving Aziraphale alone right now, Crowley would have fled the room.

“M’afraid not, no,” he said again, thankful that it came out soft rather than choked. “Do you - do you wish it was?”

“A little, yes,” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley felt so sick that he feared he’d throw up, which was awful, he _hated_ throwing up, but then Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked at Crowley, guilt written all over his face. “Gosh, I’m sorry. That was an awful thing to say to you, I -”

“No, no, I get it,” Crowley hurried to assure him, finally finishing the disentangling of their legs. He sat up. “It’s fine, I’ll just - do you want something for breakfast, I can -”

He was already halfway out of bed, but Aziraphale was faster than him; he grabbed Crowley’s arm before he could stand up. “No, Crowley, please. I didn’t think, I’m sorry.”

Crowley didn’t look back at him. He couldn’t, because, see, there were six millennia worth of memories in his head, and even though they should have been in _his_ head, too, Aziraphale wished that they didn’t exist at all. It left a bitter taste in Crowley’s mouth, and there was just some sort of annoying and gnawing _void_ where his stomach had been and he really, really wanted to be somewhere else.

“It’s fine,” he said again, without looking back at Aziraphale. “Really.”

“Don’t lie to me, please.” Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s arm and carefully touched his shoulders instead. Crowley tensed, but stopped himself from pushing Aziraphale away, and after moment Aziraphale pressed his forehead against Crowley’s shoulders, letting out a breath. “I know it’s not fine, and I wish I could remember. I really do. But it is - darling, you’ll have to give me a little time. To come to terms with everything.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “You can have all the time you need, it’s - yeah. Anyway. Do you want something for breakfast now or not?”

Aziraphale let out a soft sigh and pulled back. “No, my dear. But thank you.” He scrambled to sit next to Crowley on the bed, a little awkwardly because he took care not to touch Crowley at all, now. “I would like to take a shower, I think, and then we can - pick up where we left off last night, hm? If you want to, that is.”

“Yeah, okay,” Crowley said.

“Are you sure? Would you rather -”

“Of course I’m sure.”

Aziraphale hesitated, concern evident in his eyes as he looked at Crowley. “Well,” he said slowly. “Alright. If you’d like to shower first -”

“Nah, I’m good.” Crowley stood up. “I’ll go and make tea.”

So he did flee the room, then, and Aziraphale didn’t come after him. Crowley was honestly rather glad to be alone, because he had some serious trouble breathing for a while.[2]

 

*

 

Two hours later, they were sitting in Aziraphale’s little kitchen, both at what felt like their tenth cup of tea. Crowley had just finished explaining the whole Armaggeddon business again, and now Aziraphale was staring into his tea as if it held the answers to the most enormous questions of the universe, such as -

“And what happened then, after we took the bus?”

“Right. Uh.” He cleared his throat. “We spent the night in my flat, and the next morning - well, I woke up, and you weren't there. I called you, but you didn't - well, you know the rest."

"Yes," Aziraphale said pensively. "And how did I forget, exactly?"

Crowley winced. Now they were getting to the really difficult part. "Yeah, er. You remember the book, right?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “The prophecies written by a witch, yes. God, what I would do to get my hands on -”

“Yes, I know. That book. It was a little burned up, right, and when I tossed it over to book girl -”

“ _Anathema_ , you said was her name.”

“When I tossed it over to _Anathema_ , one prophecy fell out of it and right into your hands.” Crowley had fetched the note earlier and now pushed it over the table to Aziraphale, whose eyes widened a little at the sight.

“Oh,” he said. “That came with the letter. I completely forgot.”

Crowley nodded. “Had no idea what it said until last night.”

Aziraphale glanced at him and then carefully picked up the prophecy. He squinted at it, then sighed. “Really, shouldn’t an angel’s eyes be better than this?” He got up and grabbed his reading glasses from the kitchen counter.[3] “So, let’s see - _Spilleth the beans, angel, bef’re the prince maketh thee forget._ ” Aziraphale blinked and looked up again. “The prince?”

“That’s Adam.”

“Adam,” Aziraphale repeated. “The Antichrist.”

“Yup.”

Aziraphale frowned and looked back down at the prophecy. A few minutes passed, in which Crowley could positively watch the gears turning beneath those white-blond curls.

"I didn't tell you about this?" He asked eventually, his voice going a little higher there at the end; he was nervous. 

Crowley shook his head. "I saw you catching it and everything, but - I didn't ask, I just - I went to sleep, and you… I don't know. You figured it out and wrote the letter, I guess, and then -" He cut himself off.

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "So, ah. _Spilleth the beans_ , this says. What did I have to spill?"

"What?"

"What did I tell you?" Aziraphale took off his glasses and set them aside. "It was you, yes? Must have been, given that you were far closer to me than anyone else who remembers and also the only one who contacted me at all, after… Well."

"Ngh."

"What was it, then? Me telling you anything so briefly before forgetting everything would hardly have made a change if it hadn't been something important enough to have an impact on your actions _after_ I forgot, which I assume it had."

"It's too early for complicated sentences like that," Crowley complained faintly.

"It's almost three pm," Aziraphale said, fiddling around with the prophecy. "So?"

Crowley couldn't hold Aziraphale's gaze, but he also didn't want to look away. That was unfortunate, because now his eyes didn't know what to and awkwardly flickered around between Aziraphale's raised eyebrow and his unable-to-stay-still hands and also a tea stain on the countertop behind him.

"I," Crowley finally began, but didn't get much farther than that at first. Then, "I didn't even remember until last week, I - I guess that Adam's master stroke messed with my head too, a bit, or - anyway, I didn't. Know. Until last week."

Aziraphale somehow managed to look even more concerned. "That dream you had."

Crowley made some sort of affirmative sound and stared into his empty cup. His heart was crawling up into his throat, or at least it felt like it, and he could almost _see_ it, one of those black and white film countdowns and then them sitting in this tiny kitchen - _photo taken one second before the utter catastrophe_ \- and maybe, maybe, _maybe_ he was going to actually, truly, mortifyingly discorporate right now.

"You said that you loved me," he said instead of discorporated. His voice sounded a tiny bit too shrill in his ears, but that could hardly be helped now. "And that I - you asked me not to forget that. Ordered me not to, actually, and then we. I mean. You said that, and I."

Where was an apocalypse when you needed one?

"Oh," Aziraphale said. "Well. Now you've lost me, my dear."

Crowley looked up at him again, finding that Aziraphale didn't seem to understand. And that was _also_ unfortunate, because Crowley didn't really understand it himself, and he had kind of hoped that Aziraphale would. 

"What?" Crowley replied, very eloquently, and Aziraphale blinked at him.

"That can't be the only thing I told you," he said carefully, "because you already knew that, surely? You said we'd known each other for six thousand years, so…"

Oh. _Oh._

"No," Crowley said. "I mean, yes. Yes. But you never - _we_ never... I mean, I wanted us to, but we weren't - you know."

Aziraphale didn't seem to know. "We weren't?" He echoed, his tone flat.

"No," Crowley replied. "We weren't."

"Oh," Aziraphale said. " _Oh._ "

He stayed completely still for a while, then he put the slip of paper with the prophecy on the counter and sat back down at the table. Crowley spent the next minutes in silent almost-panic, but Aziraphale seemed weirdly… relieved, almost. He was obviously thinking, and it didn't take long until the confusion faded from his eyes.

"You know," he said then. "That explains quite a lot of things."

Crowley gaped at him. "It does?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said. "God, Crowley. I thought that someone had hurt you rather terribly, but - you just couldn't be sure whether I wanted, well, _had_ wanted…" He lost track of what he'd wanted to say, apparently, because suddenly his eyes became sad again. His voice was quiet when he added, "Of course, you must still have been hurting an awful lot. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine -"

"Stop saying it's fine, I know it isn't."

"And you stop apologising, it's not your bloody fault."

"Still," Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a slightly reprimanding look that told him that Aziraphale probably wouldn't stop apologising anytime soon. Aziraphale let it go for now, though, brow furrowing again. "Good god, six thousand years. What were we even _doing?"_

"Uh. Well," Crowley said, but didn't elaborate. It was actually a very good question, but somehow it felt like 'getting drunk and tossing coins to decide who had to ride the goddamn horse' wouldn't have been a very satisfying answer.

Thankfully, it seemed like Aziraphale had intended the question to be rhetorical, anyway, because the next thing he said was, "Crowley, I hope you know that I wanted you, too, like this, even before I forgot, and long before I told you."

Crowley couldn't help it, he snorted out a quiet and rather bitter laugh. "And how would you know that, hm?"

Aziraphale shot him another minor glare, though it wasn't _really_ a glare, because it was also very fond. "I simply can't imagine knowing you and not loving you, my dear."

Crowley couldn't say anything to that. He really couldn't.

"Everything will turn out just fine," Aziraphale said, reaching across the table for Crowley's hand. "I'm sure."

"Yeah," Crowley agreed, even though he hadn't really listened. His throat did that tightening thing again and his heart must have stopped beating altogether, but Crowley couldn't possibly have care less at this point, because Aziraphale was smiling at him now. And it was a good smile, a _hopeful_ smile, and to Hell with him if it wasn't the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

 

* * *

 

1Actually, Crowley had dragged himself to all the premieres because he’d known that Aziraphale would be there, but psst.[return to text]

2 What he didn’t know was that, just a few doors away, Aziraphale had the very same problem. The former angel sat on the toilet lidfor quite some time, trying to make sense of utterly senseless things, until he finally pulled himself together and stepped into the shower.[return to text]

3 Crowley had learned that Aziraphale had a few exemplars of the exact same pair and had one of them in nearly every room, because he kept misplacing them.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this might still be a bit confusing, but hang in there, it'll make sense in the end! (I hope.)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good thing about being sick with a cold is that it gives me time to write and edit stuff. The bad thing about it is that I'm too tired to tell whether this is any good or not. But anyway, early update! 
> 
> Oh, I forgot adding the footnotes to the last chapter when I posted it, so I did that now. Nothing actually plot-relevant, but take a look at them if you're interested!

Crowley parked the Bentley on a proper parking spot this time, but only because it would stay there for quite a while and he didn’t want it to be towed away or anything. (Since miracles that helped against that sort of thing weren’t an option anymore, Crowley had gotten quite good at keeping such _human_ things in mind.) He had to admit that the Bentley looked kind of good right next to Aziraphale’s Beetle. Maybe he should ask Aziraphale if he could take the blue car for a drive now and then; it must have been terribly bored. Then again, it probably wouldn’t survive Crowley’s way of driving. 

“Get along, or the angel will be sad,” he warned both cars, because his old habit of talking to inanimate things and making them react to him was hard to get rid of. The cars didn’t react now, of course, so Crowley huffed and just left them to their own devices.

When he arrived at the bookshop, the sign on the door was flipped to _closed._ It had been like that for two days now, and there was also a written note sellotaped to the glass that told every booklover that they had to go and love books elsewhere for at least a month, though in much more polite terms. 

The door wasn’t open because even some booklovers couldn’t (or didn’t want to) read, so Crowley knocked and waited until he could see Aziraphale scurrying into sight. Crowley gave him a little wave and it was very obsolete and also awkward, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. He smiled at Crowley through the glass and swiftly opened the door.

“Long time no see,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale smile became a little less brittle and more pleased.

“Indeed,” he said, looking at Crowley as if he had actually _missed_ him, as if they hadn’t been apart for just a handful of hours but a whole week or two. “Come in, love. You had no problems getting into your flat, then?”

“I had to call a key service.”

Aziraphale didn't say _I told you so_ , but the look he gave Crowley said it for him.

“The last time I tried to pick a lock it worked just fine!” Crowley insisted as he followed Aziraphale to the backroom, where he dropped his traveling bag, kicked off his shoes and then proceeded to dramatically arrange himself on the sofa.

“And when was that, hm?” Aziraphale asked and nudged Crowley's legs. Crowley lifted them so that Aziraphale could sit down and then moved to straighten up a bit himself, but Aziraphale kept him from doing so by gently patting Crowley’s ankle. “Leave them here, it’s fine.”

So Crowley ended up with his feet in Aziraphale’s lap, which was nice because his feet were cold, and Aziraphale’s lap was not. “A few centuries ago?” He answered Aziraphale’s question. “Always used different methods to get into buildings -”

“I’m not sure if I like the sound of that.”

“- but I _could_ pick locks. I was good at picking locks.” Crowley frowned. “Okay, _fine_ , so maybe I needed to help it along with a small miracle, but. Still _._ The bloody _key service_ , as if I’m some kind of -”

“Human?”

“Yeah!”

“Poor darling,” Aziraphale said in a tone that was very nearly a deadpan. 

To his credit, Crowley at least realized his mistake quickly.. He looked up. “Sorry. I didn’t - I mean, not that being human is, you know, _bad_ , just -”

“Don’t worry, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. He leaned forward and brought his fingers to the sides of Crowley's glasses, awaiting Crowley's nod before he carefully took them off and set them aside. “I get it.”

Crowley wasn’t sure if Aziraphale actually got it, but he let it go and his head fall back again. He looked back at the ceiling, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with his now missing sunglasses- well, not really _suddenly_ ; he’d spent the entire last two days feeling uncomfortable. He’d tried answering Aziraphale’s questions as well as he could, and Aziraphale had tried listening as well as he could, and altogether it had went a little too… smoothly. Crowley thought that Aziraphale was accepting it all a little too easily, and he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak.

“What else could you do?”

Crowley squinted up at Aziraphale. “Hm?”

“Miracles,” Aziraphale said hesitantly, as if testing out the word. “You mentioned that a few times now, so I wonder…”

“Oh. Yes, right. Uh.” Crowley had no idea how to explain this. “Well. It was - yeah, I guess you'd call it magic, but there wasn't any - dunno, spell-muttering or wand-waving or anything. It was... more a matter of thinking about what you want to happen and then, ngh, making it happen?”

Aziraphale looked at him a little blankly. Crowley knew that look by now; it was Aziraphale's _That sounds absolutely insane, but I believe you, so prepare for a whole flood of questions_ look. “With no limits at all?” Was his first question, and it sounded like the thought made him a bit uncomfortable.

“Er, no. No, sure, there were limits, and rules. But they could be bended, you know, with a bit of practice and,” Crowley waved his hand, “creativity.”

Aziraphale made a sound, and Crowley knew that sound too by now. It was Aziraphale's _I don't really understand but I am trying and I wish it would make sense to me_ sound. After that sound he stayed quiet for some time, and Crowley let him think. Letting Aziraphale think was good.

When Aziraphale was done thinking, he asked, “What was the biggest you ever… Ah. Performed?”

“The biggest miracle?”

“Yes.”

“Uh.” Crowley looked at the ceiling, thinking. “Well, I stopped time once? I think that was - oh, another time I needed to redirect a few bombs so I had to redirect entire planes and people and make a mess of their plans, but that was more, ngh, many miracles in the span of like, five minutes. Was bloody exhausting, though.” He snorted. “I also made Hamlet a hit. That’s probably the biggest, yeah.”

Aziraphale thought about that for a while, too. He looked like he was trying not to freak out. He’d looked like that quite often in the last two days. “First of all, how do you _stop time -_ ”

“No idea, I just did it.”

“ - second, what _bombs_ did you redirect? And why?”

Oh. Right. “Don’t you want to ask about Hamlet? I swear that’s the -”

“Crowley.” And that was Aziraphale’s _tell me the whole story right now or I might actually freak out_ tone. The look, the sound, and the tone - the Holy Trinity of Mental Overload.

Crowley propped himself up on his elbows. “It’s _fine,_ angel. We were never in any real danger, it was just - er, the second world war.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said thing, much softer this time. “You were there during -”

“Course I was. Not the worst thing I've witnessed, but somewhere high up on the list. Wanted to sleep through it, but I’d already slept through the first big one that century - I had _nothing_ to do with that Sarajevo business[1] \- and you were -” He stopped himself.

Aziraphale studied his face, eyes soft and distressed, his entire focus on Crowley. “I was what?”

“Ngh. Awfully close to embarrassing yourself, is what you were. Got yourself _acquainted_ with a double agent who was actually a triple agent, and then you strolled right into a church with some bloody nazis in it, so I redirected the bomb and made it drop on the church so -”

“You dropped a _bomb_ on a church while I was _in the church?_ ” 

Wide eyes, voice raising in pitch. Not good.

“No no, I was in there, too!”

“That doesn’t make it better!”

“You got us out of there just fine -”

“ _Crowley_ -”

“If I hadn’t been there, you’d have gotten discorporated because of some nazi idiots who’d _outwitted_ you! What was I supposed to do, just let that happen? Yeah, no.”

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale stopped arguing. He just sat there, frowning, and eventually said, “ _Discorporated?_ Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess?”

“Oh god. Did that - was that something that _happened?”_

“Eh. To me? Sometimes. To you? Not so much.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. After a moment, Crowley sat up, taking in the other’s tense shoulders and the slightly distant look in his eyes.

“Angel. You okay in there?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied, slowly. “Just… give me a moment, please.”

The moment turned out to be eight minutes and twenty-one seconds long - Crowley counted. He never really knew what to expect when Aziraphale reacted like this. Either he would bombard Crowley with questions or he would change the topic and try to deal with this particular thing later. Crowley hated both options, because he knew that he couldn’t really _do_ anything. Sure, he could answer Aziraphale’s questions and give him time to think, but he couldn’t actually make Aziraphale comprehend this. _This_ was something a human mind simply didn’t want to comprehend, and Aziraphale’s mind was now human enough that it didn’t take kindly to being told things like this. Or anything, really.

Finally, Aziraphale said, “So.”

He had taken Crowley's hand at some point in the last eight minutes and twenty-one seconds. He was still holding it.

“Yes?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked at him again, a little more relaxed now. “You saved me, then.”

Crowley shrugged. “Guess I did.”

“Thank you. Did I thank you?”

“I don't like being thanked.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

Aziraphale nodded, then took a breath. “You were _in_ the church?”

“Mhh.”

Aziraphale let go of Crowley's hand. Instead, his fingers started fumbling around with the hem of Crowley's pants; Crowley felt it like a ghost touch through his socks. “Wasn't that… _forbidden_ , for you? Since you were…” He trailed off, looking at Crowley out of round and somewhat guilty eyes; he didn't like asking about this.

Crowley had wondered, why Aziraphale hadn't asked sooner. The whole _demon_ business, that was scary, right? Disgusting. The most horrifying thing about this story - the angel and the demon, the unnaturalness, the _impossibility._ Unforgivable.

Crowley swallowed. He didn't like being asked about this.

“Burned my feet a bit,” he said, admitting the entire wrongness of it all with just five words. _Burned by consecrated ground, an old church in shambles, bombs falling down down on the city. No, I didn't care, not that night. I was thinking about your books._

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. Just that.

Crowley couldn't tell what was going on in his head. He couldn't even say what was going on in _his own_ head. “T'was okay,” he muttered. 

Because it had been. Really. He'd managed to bring Aziraphale back into the safety of his bookshop well enough, even with burned feet. 

 _“Come in,”_ the angel had said, fiddling with his keys. Scared. _“Let me heal your feet.”_

Crowley would have let him do anything, anything at all. He'd never learned if and how Aziraphale had included the Blitz into his reports to Upstairs.

“I suppose I understand now,” Aziraphale pulled Crowley out of his thoughts, “why you were like that, in St. Pauls.”

Crowley blinked at him. _This_ Aziraphale, right now. No keys, but the hem of Crowley's trousers. Still scared, but just a little, not even enough to cloud his eyes. _Let me heal your feet._

“Like what?” Crowley asked.

The smile was tiny and hesitant, but it was definitely there. “You kept looking at the floor. And when I told you about the candles and the -”

He was cut off by a soft chime, and immediately let out a groan.

“What is it with people and their inability to read?” He said to Crowley. Then, louder, “I’m afraid we're closed!”

“Zacharias?"”

At the sound of the voice, Aziraphale flinched so hard that Crowley's legs were kicked right out of the former angel's lap. Aziraphale uttered an apology, but Crowley couldn't get out more than a confused noise before Aziraphale was already getting up and leaving the backroom.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley heard Aziraphale say, in a tone that promised nothing good.

“Zacharias!” The voice said again, cheerful in a way that made Crowley's skin crawl and him think _no, no, no._ “It's good to see you! How've you been, hm? I see your, uh, _lovely_ shop is doing fine -”

“I _said,”_ Aziraphale interrupted the visitor, “what are you doing here?”

Crowley finally made himself move and stumbled to the door-less door frame that led to the main room of the shop and, sure enough, there he was. With his stupid suit and stupid polished shoes and that stupid grin he'd always had, that bright and charming grin that you couldn't help but feel mildly threatened by.

 _There’s the other shoe,_ Crowley thought. It had striking similarity with Gabriel.

“I was in the area,” the shoe that looked like Gabriel said, making it sound like it should have been obvious. “So I thought, why not stop by my brother's bookshop and see if it's any less dusty than I remember. Right?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and once more Crowley marveled at his friend's ability to sound very polite and very menacing at the same time. “How kind of you to think of me.”

“Yes, yes. It's not, by the way,” Gabriel looked around and made a face, gesturing at the nearest books, “any less dusty, _but_ \- charming. Mother would have - oh.” He had spotted Crowley. “And who is that?”

“Crowley,” Crowley said, mentally adding, _and I'd have thrown a bloody dusty book at you already if these were anyone else’s books._ “Hi.”

He came to stand next to Aziraphale, who didn't even glance at him.

“Crowley,” he said, “meet Gabriel. My brother.”

 _Yeah, right._ Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale's back, keeping the touch light at first. He could feel the tension in Aziraphale's muscles, right beneath the softness of his jumper, but it eased a little in reaction to Crowley's touch, so Crowley left his hand exactly where it was.

“Oh,” Gabriel said, some funny sort of expression scurrying over his face that wasn't funny at all, not one bit. “I see, you two are -”

“Yes, we are,” Aziraphale interrupted him. Again. He sighed. “Gabriel, why are you here?”

Gabriel focused on Aziraphale again. His grin had faded. Crowley noticed that his eyes weren't purple anymore, but human-coloured. For some weird reason, Crowley had to resist the urge to go looking for his sunglasses.

“Well, you weren't there,” Gabriel said, raising his brows. “Yesterday. Micha was worried, but I was sure you were just,” his eyes flickered to Crowley, “distracted. Happens to the best of us, am I right?”

Aziraphale had gone awfully pale. He didn't say anything, just looked at Gabriel with a polite smile frozen in place, a smile with unusually sharp edges.

“I don't really have much time now, I'm afraid,” Gabriel said, grinning again. Leniently, this time, as if he had _any_ right to grin like that. “Because - you know. The business. Hey, you should call some time, we could -”

“Just _go_ , would you?” Aziraphale said coolly, and Gabriel blinked.

“Right,” he said, and suddenly the joyful tone was almost completely gone. “Of course. I would hate to keep you from anything.” He looked at Crowley and took a step towards them. “It was very nice to meet you. I hope my brother isn't too -”

“He asked you to go,” Crowley snapped.

Gabriel smiled at them both, the most insincere smiles of insincere smiles, and then he turned and left the shop, calling a goodbye over his shoulder.

It got very silent in the bookshop. Crowley stayed where he was and looked at Aziraphale, but he was just staring after Gabriel, his expression blank.  He had started wringing his hands, fingers clenching and unclenching again, and his smile was long gone.

“Do you know him?” He finally broke the silence. “Is he -”

“Yes,” Crowley replied carefully. “He's, er. _The_ Gabriel.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said.

“You okay?”

Aziraphale didn't look at him. “No. No, not really.”

“Ngk, 'kay, then let's -”

 “I didn't even _realize._ How can someone like _him_ -”

“I know. I know, he's a wanker -”

“He's my _brother._ ” Aziraphale let out the air he'd been holding and all but dropped down onto the nearest pile of books that was high enough for him to sit of. “Or I thought he was, at least.”

“He's not,” Crowley said. "I don't know why Adam did that. Gabriel - he was your boss, and he was awful to you. He's still awful to you, so maybe - maybe it's good that he's not _actually_ your brother, eh?”

“Oh, of course. Yes, it's lovely. The brother I remember, who spent his entire life ridiculing me for everything I am, is not actually my brother, but an archangel who spent the last _six thousand years_ ridiculing me for everything I am." Aziraphale was glaring now. “How is that _any_ better?”

“I just meant -”

“I _remember_ these things, Crowley!”" Aziraphale stood up again, pointing at the door. “I remember growing up with him, I remember my siblings, my -” He pressed his lips together, just briefly. He was breathing rather heavily, and his eyes _were_ clouded now, with fright and confusion and anger. “I tried to forget about it these last days, but how could I? How could I?”

“Okay, you're upset, I -”

“Of course I'm upset! I'm upset because I don't remember, and because I wish I would and at the same time I wish I didn't _need_ to, and because I forgot the death-day of a mother I _never even had!”_

Oh.

So that was what Gabriel's visit had been all about, then. Crowley stared at Aziraphale, speechless. Aziraphale sat down again, heavy, and looked at his knees.

“It's been six years now,” he said, very quietly. “I never forgot, not once. We'd meet at the grave, every year, like…” He cleared his throat. “A ceasefire, you see. No fighting, no bullying. And I _forgot.”_

Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat. “He was just here to rub that in your face.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course,” he said. Then, “I'm sorry for shouting.”

“No,” Crowley breathed out. “Nah, don't be.”

His angel's eyes were wet. That wouldn't do.

Crowley crouched in front of him and, after a moment of hesitation, took Aziraphale's hands in his. “Look, I - I won't pretend that I understand, because I - I don't remember things like that. I don't know what it's like. But you - you do, right, and that's okay, and it won't go away, so you - you shouldn't have to forget about it, or ignore it. I'm sorry.”

“It's not -”

“Not my fault, I know. Not your fault, either. S'just how it is now. So…" He paused, thinking. "I'll tell you what we're going to do, angel, okay?”

Aziraphale met his eyes, brow rising slightly. “What?”

“We're gonna go and get some flowers. What - what did she like? Roses? Everyone likes roses -”

“Sunflowers.”

"Right, then we're gonna get some sunflowers, and I'll give you a lift. Okay?”

“Okay,” Aziraphale said. He was beginning to smile. Just a little, but that was more than enough for now.

 

*

 

“What was it like?” Crowley asked later, after  they had arranged the sunflowers to Aziraphale's liking and sat down on a bench near the grave. “Growing up with Gabriel.”

Aziraphale blew his nose. “About as fun as you would imagine, I suppose,” he said then. “He really is a wanker.”

Crowley had to laugh, which made Aziraphale beam in return.

“I can show you photos later, if you'd like.”

“You have _photos?”_ Crowley stared at him, still grinning. "Of Gabriel."

"Mh-hm."

Crowley raised a brow. "Of yourself?"

"Oh, yes."

"Photos of yourself. As a kid."

"Yes, Crowley."

"No way. What did you look like?"

Aziraphale seemed amused. "Chubby, fair-haired and blue-eyed. Really, Crowley, what do you _think_ I looked like?"

Crowley smiled. "Adorable."

"Well, naturally."

"How many siblings do you have?" Crowley asked. "Or, uh. Remember. You never really said."

"Four," Aziraphale replied, carefully avoiding Crowley's eyes. He took a breath, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. "You were right, of course. With what you said earlier. It isn't like we ever really got along, so I suppose it… it shouldn't matter. It doesn't, in the end."

"It matters to you, though."

"Well, yes, but -"

"No, angel," Crowley interrupted. "If it matters to you, it matters. And that's fine. End of story."

"Is it really?" Aziraphale asked, looking at Crowley again. "Fine?"

"Yeah," Crowley said. "Sure."

The truth was that he hadn't really thought about this before. Sure, Aziraphale had mentioned his "family" now and then, and Crowley had been weirdly fascinated by it, but in the end he had always just… dismissed it. The memories were fake, after all. 

Now, he did think about it. And, sitting here next to an angel who seemed to be very human all in all, Crowley thought about this: _It's reality, angel. And Warlock can do what he likes with that, whether he knows it or not._ He himself said that, once. And the thing was, Adam _had_ known. What he'd done hadn't been an accident, he had thought it through, at least in the way an eleven year old mind thought things through at all.

Anathema had said that Aziraphale's real memories were not gone, just buried. And while that was probably true, Adam had had to place something on top of them, had to make Aziraphale remember a life he'd never led. And he'd done that, but there were also _other_ people who remembered that life - Aziraphale's "siblings", for one thing - so what if… Yes, what if those memories weren't fake at all? What if they had all really taken place, in this odd alternate reality Adam had created?

That would mean that it weren't Aziraphale's memories that were out of place at all, but _Crowley's._ And Anathema's and Newt's, too, maybe even Adam's. 

Crowley's head was swimming. 

Aziraphale took Crowley's hand, and seconds later started smoothing his thumb over the back of it. "What are you thinking about?"

Crowley hesitated. "I might've figured something out."

Aziraphale's thumb stilled. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Crowley said, distantly, then finally looked at Aziraphale again. "What time is our train tomorrow?"

"Oh. Ten, I think. We'll be in Inverness in the evening. Why?"

"Just checking," Crowley said. They had more than enough time, then. "Angel, how do you feel about a trip to Tadfield?"

 

* * *

 

1 He mentioned that because he’d always thought that Aziraphale thought that he’d had something to do with it, even though Aziraphale didn’t think that.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first came up with a plan for this, I wanted Gabriel and the other archangels to play a bigger role, but as it turned out, I find writing Gabriel crazily difficult for some reason, so. This is all he gets. 😄


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just pretend that this didn't just take me ages (again). Thanks everyone for all your comments, I hope you'll like this chapter, too!!! ❤

**Book girl**

I told him 1:34 PM

Thank god 1:36 PM

How is he?? 1:36 PM

Did you really thank god just now  1:37 PM

Yes. 1:39 PM

So how is he? 1:39 PM

We're coming over 1:43 PM

Invite the hellspawn 1:43 PM

 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, bending over the gearstick to look at Crowley's phone. “Don't call him that.”

“Why not? He is an hellspawn.” Crowley threw his phone into Aziraphale's lap. “ _The_ hellspawn.”

“It's rude,” Aziraphale told him. He placed the phone on his thigh, glancing down at it. “You have a new message.”

"Yeah, then read it," Crowley drawled and started the car again. Aziraphale had insisted they stop so that Crowley could inform Anathema that they were on their way, because appearing unannounced was - you guessed it - rude as well.

“She says, 'Adam is not a hellspawn',” Aziraphale read Anathema's text. He hummed. “I like her.”

Crowley groaned. “He's _literally_ the son of Satan, angel, so it's just a fact you have to -”

“From what I understand," Aziraphale interrupted him, “this reality is different from, well, _the other one_ , and if he is human now as well, then I do believe he is the son of his human father and nothing else, so -”

“Yes, fine! Fine, have it your way. I’ll stop calling him that. Happy?”

“Overjoyed,” Aziraphale confirmed, his tone dry. Then, “She says she'll invite Adam and his friends for tea.”

“Great,” Crowley said and glanced at Aziraphale, who had started fiddling around with Crowley’s mobile. “What’re you doing?”

"I want to write her back that I am fine, since she asked for the third time just now. What is your - oh, nevermind, I’ve got it.”

Crowley turned his head to stare at his boyfriend, who was already typing a message in that slow, but not as slow as expected way of his. “Wait, did you just - did you just _hack_ into my phone?”

Aziraphale tsked. “It can hardly be called ‘hacking’ when I used your code, I think.”

“How did you even -”

“1962,” Aziraphale said, now done with typing. “The first Bond movie. You gushed about it one time when we were drunk.”

“I do not _gush._ ”

“We both know that you do, after a few bottles of wine. Also, _please,_ Crowley, watch the street.”

Crowley huffed, but decided to let it go. 

A few seconds later, Aziraphale said, “Frankly, my dear, I think it’s rather adora -"

“If you finish that sentence, I’ll steal your kettle. M'not kidding, I’ll do it. You’ll never drink tea again.”

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale said, looking out of the window. He was smiling, the bastard. “You wouldn’t dare.”

 

*

 

Crowley parked the Bentley directly in front of Jasmine Cottage. For some reason, he couldn't wait to get out of the car, so he did just that. He already wanted to close the door, but then realized that Aziraphale was still sitting. He would have looked frozen in place if not for his fidgeting hands.

“Angel?”

“I think,” Aziraphale said, “I am a little nervous.”

Crowley didn't really know what to say to that, so he went with, “That's okay?”

“It's - a little weird, all of this. Isn't it?”

Crowley nodded. “More than just a little.”

Aziraphale nodded, too, as if acknowledging the weirdness made it easier to deal with it. Then he got out of the car, closing the door much more gently than Crowley ever did. He looked around, taking in the view of the cottage and the surrounding idyll. It was a nice day; cool enough that Crowley was freezing, but sunny. The trees looked like someone had dipped them into red and golden paint.

“It's a lovely village,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley made a dismissive sound. “It's a village.”

“Your hometown,” Aziraphale said, glancing at Crowley with a raised brow as he walked around the car.

“It was the first place that crossed my mind! It's not my fault it's so bloody - ngh, picturesque.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “Shall we?”

He opened the small gate and led the way along the path to the front door, which opened before either of them could even think about knocking. It was Anathema, because of course it was - she probably knew the exact second they were coming ever since they texted her. 

She was smiling, and while she looked a little witchy, her sight was not a reason to turn on one's heels and march into the opposite direction. But that was exactly what Aziraphale did, and given that Crowley was directly behind him, he marched directly _into_ Crowley and nearly made them both stumble.

“I'm sorry,” he was already saying, “I'm so sorry, I -”

“Angel, what -”

“- shouldn't be like -”

“Everything's -”

“ _No,_ it's - I don't know how to -”

 _“Aziraphale,”_ Crowley said and finally, Aziraphale shut up. 

His fingers had somehow found their way to Crowley's chest, holding onto his lapels, and in return Crowley's hands now settled on Aziraphale's shoulders while Crowley tried to remember what Aziraphale did and said when _Crowley_ was panicking like this.

“Hey, it's alright. I'm here, just - deep breath, okay?” God, he sounded far too nervous himself; Aziraphale was so much better at these things. Crowley kept talking, anyway, nodding along with his own words. “Deep breath. Yeah, angel, just like that. Good. Okay?”

Aziraphale mirrored the nods and breathed. He looked awfully pale. It went on a moment or two or five, all that nodding and breathing and reassuring, and Crowley tried not to freak out himself, thinking that if they started freaking out at the same time, things wouldn't end well.

Eventually, Aziraphale’s forehead all but dropped onto Crowley’s shoulder, so naturally Crowley’s brain gave up and went offline. Which was very stupid of his brain, because it wasn’t like they didn’t _hug_ every once in a while, but the thing was - yes, the thing was, Crowley couldn’t remember a point in time when Aziraphale had turned to him like this, for, well - comfort. That hadn’t been a possibility Before, and even since the End of the World, it had only ever been the other way around. 

Crowley looked past Aziraphale’s white-ish curls at Anathema, who was still standing in the doorway and looking at them. When she caught Crowley’s gaze, she seemed rather appalled and started waving her hands. She mouthed something along the lines of _hug him, you moron,_ and then disappeared into her cottage.

Determining that listening to an American witch was as good an idea as any other, Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale after just a few seconds. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he leaned against Crowley’s chest even more pointedly, letting out a harsh breath. He was still trembling a little, but after a while of having his back patted and stroked by a Crowley who was a bit out of his depth, Aziraphale calmed down. More or less. 

He took another trembling breath and then pulled back, bringing some space between them so that he could rub at his face. He hadn’t cried a lot, but his eyes were misty and his voice a tad wet when he said, “Fantastic.”

Crowley blinked down at him. “Huh?”

“I went and made things awkward,” Aziraphale informed him. He sniffed, looking all in all rather miserable, and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket to blow his nose. “The poor girl. That was a terribly rude thing I did, just turning around again like that. Heavens, I don’t know what got into me, I _thought_ I was ready, but obviously I -”

“Az,” Crowley interrupted his partner’s rambling. “It’s fine. She won’t be offended or anything. She knows that this isn’t, you know. Easy. I’m sure she’s already making tea for you.”

Aziraphale swallowed visibly and let the handkerchief disappear again. “Tea,” he echoed, and sighed. “Tea would be nice.”

“Yeah?” Crowley studied Aziraphale’s face. “Because if you want to leave, that’d be fine too. Just say the word.”

But Aziraphale shook his head. And sniffed again. “I’m sorry I bumped into you.”

“S’alright,” Crowley said. “You can bump into me anytime, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed at that, exasperated or amused; Crowley couldn’t really tell. Maybe both. But at least Aziraphale relaxed again, at least a little, and straightened up as well. The look in his red-trimmed eyes turned thoughtful. 

“She’s like me,” he said, quietly.

Crowley raised a brow.

Aziraphale glanced at him and gave a slightly helpless shrug, inclining his head to one side. “She can see…” He trailed off, pressing his lips together. “I’m not sure. There’s something there. A… sixth sense, if you will. Similar to mine.”

“You can sense that sort of thing?” Crowley asked, stunned. Aziraphale didn’t talk about this often. He would mention the things he _knew_ , now and then, but that was all. He certainly didn’t like Crowley asking questions about it; it made him uncomfortable. 

“Sometimes,” Aziraphale said distantly. “You told me she was a - a _witch_ , but it… It still threw me off guard, a little.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said again. “Do you want to go in?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. I suppose.”

Crowley nodded and, after taking Aziraphale's hand, led the way into the cottage.

 

*

 

Fifteen minutes later, they were seated on the tiny, but very comfortable sofa in the sitting room. Newt was still puttering around in the kitchen, but Anathema was with them, watching them carefully. They had already been given cups of tea. Aziraphale had apologised about twenty times, but Anathema had just waved it off. Now he seemed to concentrate on taking one small sip after the other and not meeting anyone's eyes for longer than two seconds. He had placed his free hand on Crowley's knee and clung to it a bit too tightly, but really, Crowley didn't mind.

“Where is he, then?” He asked after some time.

“He'll be here soon, I'm sure,” Anathema said. 

Crowley huffed, letting himself sink a little bit deeper into the sofa cushions. “Well, he could hurry a bit.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished him quietly. “You're not in the bookshop.”

Crowley scowled at him, but arranged himself at least a tiny bit more appropriately when Aziraphale gave him another pointed look.

“Also, we should be glad that he agreed to meet at all, at such late notice -”

“He's a _schoolboy,_ angel,” Crowley said. “Not some kind of businessman with a full calendar.”

“Well, exactly. I'm sure he's got better things to do then having tea with us.” Aziraphale frowned at his cup, lips twitching. “Though I guess that he does owe us at least a proper explanation.” He looked up again. “Still, I hope we’re not imposing too badly. I would hate to -”

“It's fine,” Anathema interrupted him, as kindly as you could possibly interrupt someone. “Don't worry.”

Newt came into the room and sat down next to Anathema in another armchair. He had brought biscuits, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence he carefully pushed the plate a little in Aziraphale's direction. Aziraphale smiled and, after a second of consideration, chose one of them to start nibbling at it.

Anathema smiled, then, and there was a glint in her eyes that told Crowley that she was about to meddle with things that were none of her business. She would probably make them have a Talk and then discreetly leave the room so they could Talk in peace, and everything about it would be awful.

“So,” Anathema said. “You know now.”

_Yup, here we go._

“I do,” Aziraphale answered, with a smile of his own that was a great deal more nervous than Anathema's. “It was - quite the revelation.”

“I've been there,” Newt said, his tone somewhat awkward because _awkwardly_ was just his way of doing things. He looked like he really wanted to be helpful. “I, uh. I wish I could say it gets better in time, but it. It kind of doesn't. I mean, it does! Just.  Every time Anathema does something, er, strange - _good_ strange, mind you, but. I just mean - weird things stay weird, right?”

Newt was not being very helpful. But at least he was trying. He was also blushing so thoroughly that the tips of his ears were flaming red. Everybody else in the room looked at him with varying levels of fondness and good will - Crowley being on a steady level zero while Anathema found herself somewhere above level hundred despite not really knowing how she had gotten there. Or why, for that matter. Aziraphale, for his part, just seemed grateful that somebody else than him also tended to make awkward situations even more awkward by aimless rambling.

Newt cleared his throat and all but buried his nose in his cup as he a little lamely finished, “You'll get to like the weirdness, though, I'm sure. Um. God knows I did.”

Crowley let out a groan. “Can we _please_ keep God out of this? Doesn't make me sneeze anymore, thank _someone_ , but -”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, because he had absolutely no qualms about ignoring Crowley when it suited him. He was smiling at Newt - sincerely, though a little faintly. “I know exactly what you mean, I think.”

“You're calmer than I thought you would be,” Anathema said, her tone careful.

Aziraphale blinked. “Ah. Well. _Calm_ is not really the word I would choose, but I'm glad it seems that way.” He glanced at Crowley, uncertain. “Crowley has been doing nothing but answering my questions these last days; that did help a little.”

“You’re doing good,” Crowley told him, frowning. “Everybody else would’ve already had me committed.”

Aziraphale snorted softly. “Maybe we could share a cell,” he muttered, smirking.

Crowley grinned back. “Sounds good to me.”

“You’re adorable,” Anathema declared, sounding fascinated, and Crowley was about to tell her that he was _not_ adorable, thank you very much, when the front door opened and the quick pad of small feet announced the arrival of the former antichrist.

Or, well - the former hellhound of the former antichrist.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale said, reaching out with his hand as soon as Dog stopped in front of him to sniff his pants. “And who are you?”

“That’s Dog,” Anathema said.

“He was an hellhound,” Newt added.

Aziraphale froze, staring at the small dog who was now licking his fingers. “You did _not_ mention a hellhound, Crowley.”

“I didn’t?” Crowley asked innocently.

“Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”

Aziraphale looked up at Adam, who had just entered the room, and in the split of a second Aziraphale’s demeanour changed from _friendly middle-aged bookseller cooing at a dog_ to _middle-aged bookseller who could probably kill you with a glare if he wanted to._ The look in his eyes was icy, just like his voice when he said, “Ah. Hello.”

Uh oh.

Adam seemed to have noticed the change, too, because now he looked a little uncertain. He petted Dog’s head when he trotted back to him, but kept looking at Aziraphale. The boy was still in his school uniform, although the tie was loose and the shirt not tucked into his pants anymore.

If given the choice, Crowley would have preferred the awkward silence from earlier over this tension. It was heavy in the air, pressing down on them, and in the time before Armageddon, Crowley might have thought that it had something to do with a bit of angelic fury. Maybe Aziraphale had kept a tinge of it, after all.

“Angel,” Crowley said, nudging Aziraphale’s arm. “He's eleven. Don’t smite him.”

“I’m not trying to smite anyone,” Aziraphale replied, somewhat tetchy. “Besides, I doubt that I even could. But I do have a right to be angry, I think.”

“Uh -”

“Yes,” Adam chimed in before Crowley could come up with something good to say. “I guess you do.”

Aziraphale hummed and looked back into his cup that was probably empty by now. He set it on the table, and promptly his hands started fidgeting.

Anathema glanced at Aziraphale before turning back to Adam, looking mildly worried now. “Where are your friends?”

He shrugged. “I thought it’d be better if we talked alone. Also Pep’s come up with a great game, they’re already playing it. I’ll just join them later.”

Aziraphale looked up again, expression softening a little. “A game?”

“Yeah! Mr. Durham told us all about reptoids today, so Pepper had the idea to go into the woods and try to find some.”

“Reptoids?” Aziraphale echoed, staring at the boy.

“Yep. Lizard people! They can look just like us, though, if they want to. Mr. Durham said that many powerful people are actually reptoids, you know.”

Newt seemed a little perturbed. “Isn’t Mr. Durham your science teacher?”

“Yeah, he is,” Adam said, nodding. “He always says really funny things.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, his voice faint. “That sounds... lovely.”

He looked at Crowley, just briefly. His anger seemed to be fading, and Crowley could guess why - a kid in a tousled school uniform, talking about chasing lizard people with his friends and his tiny dog? Yeah, go and try to be mad at him.

“Okay,” Anathema said. Her tone was just a tad too cheerful. “We'll leave you alone, then, alright? Come on, Newt.”

She stood up and left the room, Newt stumbling after her. They were in the kitchen now, which was still close enough to hear every single word that was said in the sitting room, but well. Crowley supposed that they were all just going to ignore that.

Adam’s excitement about raptoids wavered a little, until his grin faded altogether. He didn’t seem _nervous,_ not really, but he looked a little like he knew he’d made some trouble and now expected to get grounded for a week or two. He sat down in one of the armchairs across from Crowley and Aziraphale, who were both staring at him. Dog jumped onto the other chair; he was probably the only one who didn’t find the situation slightly uncomfortable. 

“Anathema said you probably have questions,” Adam said eventually, glancing between the two of them. 

Crowley still thought that Adam’s eyes were a bit creepy. There was something about them that was older than it should have been - but well, that wasn’t very surprising. Adam had learned and _been_ things no eleven year old should have learned or been. 

“A few,” Aziraphale replied, speaking quietly. “I… well. There are a few things we need to know -” He looked at Crowley, who took it as a cue to take over.

“We need to know what you did exactly, okay?” He said and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his legs. “No bloody riddles anymore. I’m sick of riddles.”

“I already told you,” Adam said, looking at Crowley. “What I did, I mean.”

“You told me that both of our - that both sides are _gone,_ but you didn’t explain how you did it. You said you didn’t just... kill them.”

Adam shook his head. “I didn’t. I didn’t want to kill anyone.”

“Then what did you do to them?” Crowley asked, trying to stay patient. He could positively _feel_ Aziraphale freaking out directly next to him, although he did it very silently and slowly. Crowley couldn’t get angry right now. “Because - because, look, Aziraphale has a whole set of human memories. We met Gabriel today -”

“The man from the airbase?” Adam cut in. “With the creepy smile?”

“That’s the one. He’s not _gone,_ Adam.”

“He’s human,” Adam said slowly, frowning slightly. “And he’ll never remember. But he’s still doing what he did before, in a way. Many of them are. That angry little person, too.”

Crowley gaped, needing a moment to understand. “Beelzebub?”

“If that’s their name.”

Something in Crowley’s chest tightened, and he had to swallow down a lump of pure panic. “What about your father?”

Adam met his gaze and held it unflinchingly. “He’s probably still at work. We want to play soccer on Saturday.”

“You never had another father,” Aziraphale said, his trepidation audible. His eyes were fixed on Adam, brows slightly pinched. “Or did you?”

Adam shook his head. 

“And my mother - she was always just my mother, yes? Nothing more?”

“Nothing more,” Adam confirmed. His smile returned, even though it was a little crooked. “Though that’s already enough, I’d say.”

Aziraphale nodded, but Crowley couldn’t tell if it was agreement or just reflexive. Aziraphale’s hands were folded in his lap now, holding on too tightly. The knuckles were turning white.

“What about all the others?” Crowley asked. “The angels. The demons. Everybody.”

“Oh.” Adam lifted his shoulders. “They’ll be born soon, probably. I mean, if they haven’t been already. They were just - staff, right? They were just doing their jobs. Making them vanish would’ve been unfair.”

Crowley huffed out a laugh. Reincarnating demons and angels, that sounded like something straight out of a book about damned conspiracy theories. 

“You didn’t just _change_ the world, did you?” he asked, a little breathless. “You created a new one. New lives and memories - _real_ lives, _real_ memories - for everyone. Everyone except you and me.” He nodded at the door that led to the kitchen. “And them.”

“My friends, too,” Adam added. 

“So everything I remember,” Crowley said through clenched teeth, “ _everything_ from before Eden to blasted Armageddon, it never - it never _happened?”_

Adam frowned at him. “You remember it, don’t you? So it - it still happened, for you. And for me, because I haven’t forgotten, either. Just not for the others.”

And, yes, wasn’t that how it worked? Crowley had figured out ages ago that the past didn’t consist of facts and dates. It was nothing more than jotted down retellings that constantly changed when a new storyteller came along. A mosaic of memories, different for everyone. 

And that meant - that meant that what Crowley remembered was not any less or more real than what Aziraphale remembered.

“But why?” Aziraphale asked. “Why did you do all this? Why didn’t you let everything stay the way it was?”

For the first time, Adam looked away. He reached out to pet his dog and shrugged again - looking a little bit more like the kid he was, now. “They wouldn’t have stopped fighting,” he said quietly. “They would’ve come back. You _know_ they would’ve, and I - I didn’t want them to. We couldn’t have won, not against all of them.”

“So you made everything we had disappear,” Aziraphale said, eyes flaring up with a sort of anger that was achingly close to desperation. “Adam, that’s not _alright._ You can’t just poke around in other people’s heads.”

“I didn’t know what else to do! It was the only thing I could think of, I didn’t have much _time._ I’m sorry you’re not happy.” He looked down at his knees, his shoulders hunched. “I wanted you to be happy.”

Silence, for a moment. Crowley and Aziraphale stared first at the boy, then at each other. Eventually, Aziraphale took a breath and got up from the sofa. He crouched in front of Adam, and Crowley couldn’t do anything but watch in surprise.

“Adam,” Aziraphale said, his tone gentle, and Adam raised his head again to look at him. “We’re not unhappy _._ And I understand that you did what seemed to be the right thing, and I don’t think it wasn’t. But you - you took _everything_ from me, Adam. I’m mourning after something I don’t even remember having, and I still don’t understand why.”

“Why?” Adam echoed, glancing past Aziraphale at Crowley.

“Why I remember and he doesn’t,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded.

“Oh.” Adam thought about it for a moment, biting his lip, then looked at Aziraphale again. “You were - you were so scared, you know. And you felt so guilty, because you liked him so much. That wasn’t fair, not for either of you.”

Crowley stood up, too, and carefully pushed Dog aside a little so Crowley could sit down there instead. He mostly just did it because he wanted to Aziraphale’s face, to look at him maybe, but Aziraphale didn’t even seem to really notice that Crowley had changed places. His entire focus was on Adam, and Crowley could positively hear him think.

“So you took that away,” Aziraphale said, slowly. 

Adam nodded. “I didn’t mean to make all the memories go, too. But you said that it wasn’t bad, being human. That it was good. I just thought you might like it, that it would - make you happier.” He threw a look at Crowley. “One of you needed to remember, though. I didn’t want you to - I mean. I wanted to give you both the choice.”

Crowley studied the boy’s face, unsure what he was saying. “The choice to do what?”

Adam looked at him for a moment, then shrugged again. “To be whatever you want. Like all of us.”

“Adam,” Aziraphale said carefully, “didn’t you already make that choice for me?”

“No.” Adam vehemently shook his head, eyes wide. “Things are coming back, aren’t they? They should be. Small things?”

Aziraphale didn’t seem convinced, and honestly Crowley wasn’t entirely sure if he understood what was going on, either.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “Yes. But I still don’t remember.”

“But you will,” Adam insisted. “If you want to. And you -” He looked at Crowley. “You can choose, too.”

Crowley frowned. “Uh. Between what? Last time I checked, I didn’t have a set of, you know, normal memories.”

“You could. You already came up with some.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look, the former angel’s eyes alight with understanding. “Your hometown,” he said, the second time today.

And Crowley understood, too. Of course he did. He hadn’t forgotten what he had told Aziraphale, about his father and coming to London to study law. But that wasn’t real, he’d just come up with stuff that didn’t even make a lot of things, just so he wouldn’t appear like a complete lunatic.

Crowley swallowed with some difficulty. “And that - that can become real? I’d just forget everything, and remember a human life instead? Is that what you’re saying?”

Adam nodded, his eyes full of both guilt and assurance. “Yes. That’s how I wanted it to be, at least. Didn’t have control over _everything_ that would happen - there were too many,” he scrunched up his nose, thinking, or maybe just remembering, “details. But it should all work out fine. I wanted everything to work out fine.”

“And reality listened to you, that day,” Crowley muttered, and looked at Aziraphale again. Searched for something to hold onto, because this was just entirely too much. He couldn’t even grasp the meaning of it, not yet.

“Are you mad?” Adam asked. Still not nervous, just -  a bit sad.

“Maybe a little,” Aziraphale admitted, sighing. He stood up with a soft grunt and sat down on the armrest of Adam’s chair. “But we forgive you, dear boy. Don’t we, Crowley?”

“Yes,” Crowley agreed. “Yes, sure.”

He sounded absent; maybe that was what made Aziraphale turn to him. Their eyes met, and there was a fleeting flicker of a smile on Aziraphale’s face, making Crowley feel at least remotely better about all of this. As long as Aziraphale could still smile, things couldn’t be that bad.

They would leave this town, in a bit. Then they would go home and spend the night in the small flat above the bookshop that had belonged to an angel and still did, in a way, and in the morning they would take the train to Inverness. A few weeks alone somewhere, away from everything, could be exactly what they needed. Time to sort their thoughts, to think. 

They had a choice to make, after all.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some fluff and talking about things before Decisions will be made in the next chapter. I hope you'll like it!💕 
> 
> (Also I didn't edit this a lot because it's late and I should have been in bed hours ago, sooo this might be a bit of a mess. Ah well.)

Crowley had never been one to use human means of transportation. Well, except the Bentley, of course, and the bus in which he and Aziraphale had met now and then. He'd been on a plane exactly once and found that his stomach didn't seem to like to be that high above the ground when he wasn't carried by his own wings, and this was only the second time he used a train to get from one place to another. The first time he'd been on a train, it hadn't even been a means of transport, really. More a means of mischief. The concept of trains simply wasn’t something Crowley approved of, because it generally required sitting still in the same spot for quite some time, and he wasn’t very good at that.

Now, though, he found that being stuck in the same spot for a little more than nine hours  _ could _ actually be really goddamn amazing, as long as Aziraphale was stuck in said spot as well.

Almost four hours of those nine were already over. They had had lunch on the train, which hadn’t been particularly good but also not particularly bad, considering that it had been made in what was little more than a bunch of metal and human ingenuity that moved with the steady speed of about 130 miles per hour. When they had returned to their seats, it hadn’t taken long until Aziraphale had drifted off to sleep, his head resting on Crowley’s shoulder.

It wasn’t surprising, really. He hadn’t slept much these last days, and he certainly hadn’t slept  _ well. _ There was all this stuff to think about, after all, and sleeping was hard when you were so confused that you had some difficulties telling up and down apart. 

Needless to say, Crowley wasn’t at all bothered by the fact that Aziraphale was comfortable enough to fall asleep  _ on _ Crowley. His hair tickled a bit, but all in all it was just very nice, and warm. Crowley wanted to keep himself in a comfortable position to lean on, so he tried not to move too much and simply looked out of the window as the countryside of Northern England passed them by. He also tried not to think too much. 

He kind of wished that all of this had happened after their trip. It could have been nice, he thought, sitting in this train with three weeks of lazing around in between of buying lots of expensive books and doing some absentminded sightseeing ahead of them. Three weeks without all those choices hanging over their heads and thickening the air. Crowley didn’t even know  _ how _ to make a choice like that, let alone which one.

Then again, it was good that it was all out there now, in the open. That had come with some sort of relief, at least after the shock had worn off a little. Aziraphale didn’t remember, no, but he  _ knew _ now; there weren’t any secrets anymore. That didn’t make anything perfect, of course, but it did make some things easier. Crowley didn’t have to lie anymore, for example; he’d really been getting sick of that.

Aziraphale stirred. Crowley peered down at him, trying to figure out if he was just moving in his sleep or actually waking up. It seemed to be the latter, because Aziraphale first turned his head to press his face even more pointedly into Crowley’s shoulder - denial, no doubt - and then heaved a sigh, shortly followed by something that might have been Crowley’s name. With a little bit of imagination.

“M’here, angel. Everything’s fine.”

Aziraphale made another reluctant sound and then sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Good lord,” he muttered, squinting against the light. “Did I really -”

“Yep. Like a light. Not for long, though. Barely an hour.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale hid a yawn behind his hand. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere between Darlington and Durham. Still a bit to go.”

Aziraphale made a face. “This is taking far too long,” he declared, fussing a little over his tousled hair.

Crowley watched him, feeling altogether much too fond of him. This tugging in his chest just because Aziraphale was  _ there _ ; was that normal? Couldn’t be. Maybe it was a sign that he was getting a heart attack. Humans got heart attacks sometimes.

“Are you alright, darling?”

Definitely a heart attack.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I mean, my bum’s hurting from sitting, and my neck’s hurting from, I don’t know. Being a neck.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I know what you mean, dear boy. Do you know where I put my book?”

Crowley did, so soon Aziraphale was reading, and Crowley fished his laptop out of his bag to watch a movie. Aziraphale made the mistake to comment on what was happening on the screen, and then he wasn’t reading anymore. Instead, they discussed whether  _ Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy _ was a stupid name, and it was honestly a nice way to pass the time.

 

*

 

They needed some time to find their cottage. Aziraphale and Google Maps weren’t on friendly terms, and apart from that Crowley’s phone didn’t have the best reception up here. They had rented a car in Inverness and bought some takeout, although the food was probably cold by now. So when Crowley finally parked the car in front of the tiny house they would spend the next weeks in, they were both a little cranky. 

That was fine, though, because the place really was quite nice. They were somewhere south of Bunchrew, and the cottage was surrounded by open fields and trees, with more than enough space between them and the next house. Aziraphale seemed to like it, because he lightened up as soon as Crowley confirmed that, yes, they were indeed in the right place. Maybe he was just glad that they wouldn’t need to sleep in the car, though.

“It really is lovely out here,” Aziraphale said, smiling brightly while Crowley heaved both his bag and Aziraphale's suitcase out of the car boot. “Don't you think?”

“ _ Freezing,  _ that's what it is.” Crowley shut the boot and locked the car. “And pitch-fucking-black.”

“Crowley.”

“What? S'true.”

“Well, if you took off your glasses, maybe you would see a little bit more,” Aziraphale told him, just a little tetchy. 

Crowley chose to ignore him, so naturally Aziraphale chose to ignore that he was being ignored and came back to Crowley to help with their luggage. Somehow they made it to the front door without breaking any bones. It took a bit of fumbling and bickering until Aziraphale found the key that had been placed under a flower pot for them, but when they finally stumbled into the cottage, the mood improved quickly enough. 

Well, at least Aziraphale’s did. Crowley was still freezing, and also just exhausted.

“It’s cold in here,” he complained, dropping his bag. “Couldn't they have, dunno, pre-heated or something? I'm gonna lose a toe. It's already tingling. It's bad when they tingle.”

“Why don't you go and look for the bedroom?” Aziraphale suggested amicably. “Meanwhile, I'll try to light the fire.”

“It's  _ tingling,  _ Az.”

“It's Aziraphale, dear, and I think the bedroom is that way.”

Crowley huffed and marched out of the sitting room to see if the rest of the house was just as cold. It was, and Crowley wasn't amused, but he was momentarily distracted from that when he found himself staring at the only bed in the cottage. After a moment, he made his way back to the sitting room, where Aziraphale was crouching in front of the fireplace.

“Hey, angel?”

“Yes?”

“There’s just one bed.”

“I know, Crowley. I booked the cottage, remember?”

“Do you want me to sleep on the sofa?”

“I will just pretend that I didn't hear that,” Aziraphale said, apparently done fiddling around with the fire iron. When he stood up, the flames were flickering. “Well, then, I'll heat up dinner, yes? I'm starving.”

“I'm cold.”

Aziraphale sighed. "What  _ is _ it with you and low temperatures, my dear?"

“Ng, I - I was cold blooded for six millennia, okay? My body's still catching up!”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and his mildly annoyed expression had already softened. He came over to Crowley and stretched to kiss his cheek. “Maybe we can take a nice hot bath after dinner, hm? Would you mind taking our things to the bedroom?”

“Did you just,” Crowley started, but didn't manage to finish the sentence. “You can't just,” he tried again, but that didn't lead to anything, either. 

He spluttered out some more fragments that might have become actual sentences with a bit of time and encouragement. Aziraphale waited for a moment, but then just smiled and patted Crowley's shoulder before he made his way to the kitchen, already happily, albeit a bit tiredly, rambling about the restaurants he'd spotted on their drive through Inverness.

So Crowley brought their luggage into the bedroom, and then they had dinner in front of the blissfully warm fire and drank wine until they were both tipsy, and then they did not take a bath. That was alright, though, because Crowley found that a bath couldn't possibly be better than crawling into the bed with Aziraphale after a much too long day of traveling.

“If I ever tell you again that I want to spend nine hours in a train,” Aziraphale murmured not long after they had laid down, “please do everything in your power to change my mind.”

Crowley snorted. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t try. I did suggest the Bentley.”

“Oh, yes, and sitting nine hours in a car would have been so much better.”

“I bet I would’ve made it in seven.”

“Which is why I didn’t let you drive.” Aziraphale sighed. “We’ll just go by plane next time.”

Crowley rolled onto his side so that he could face Aziraphale. He couldn’t see much in the darkness of the room, but it looked like Aziraphale had already closed his eyes. Crowley himself was far too nervous to even think about sleeping right now, for reasons unknown to the entirety of mankind. It wasn’t like they hadn’t slept in one bed before, they had done so every single night now that Aziraphale  _ knew, _ and somehow this still felt… different. Probably Crowley’s brain was just giving him shit and making everything much more complicated than it had to be, but he really  _ was _ nervous.

“Crowley?”

Crowley briefly wondered if he should act like he hadn’t been staring at Aziraphale like a creep, but then he thought that Aziraphale probably had already noticed, anyway. “Hm?”

“Were you really a snake?”

“Uhm. Yeah? Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Aziraphale echoed. 

Crowley had mentioned this before, just like he mentioned that he was - had been - a demon. Aziraphale hadn't really commented on either so far, probably because it had baffled him too much, and Crowley had already been waiting for him to freak out about it. Thankfully, Aziraphale didn’t sound even sound perturbed right now, only curious.  Maybe a little confused. 

“Yes,” Crowley said. “Like. On Sundays and public holidays.”

He kept his voice so quiet that it was almost a whisper, because Aziraphale had done the same and and also because it was way past midnight now and they were lying in bed in a dark room, both exhausted and bleary-eyed and - well, oddly comfortable. Whispering seemed the appropriate thing to, which was also the reason why Aziraphale tried to stifle his laughter.

He didn't manage very well, and ended up making a sound that was somewhere between a huff and a giggle. “Crowley, I’m serious.”

“Me too! There’s a World Snake Day, you know. It’s on July 16th.”

“I sincerely doubt that’s a public holiday.”

“Ngk. Certainly was one for me.”

“Alright, alright,” Aziraphale said, probably just to get Crowley to stop talking about weird holidays. “So you - you could  _ change?  _ Into a snake? Is that what you’re saying?”

Crowley had no idea how to explain this. In fact, he was very sure that he  _ couldn’t _ explain it, because the concept of angelic or demonic bodies wasn’t something that made sense, at least not in a way that a human mind could have understood it. 

“I didn’t - didn’t really  _ change,” _ he said in the end. “I mean, I guess it looked like I did. But snake stays snake. Right?”

Aziraphale hummed. “Then are you - I mean, still? You know?”

“Nah, don’t think so.” Crowley rubbed his feet against each other under the blanket, checking for scales. “I mean, my feet aren’t scaly anymore, and my eyes aren’t - ngk. Snakey. So there’s that.”

“Snakey?” Aziraphale asked, curious. “What did they look like?”

Crowley huffed a laugh. “Ever seen a snake’s eyes? Not pretty.”

“Now don’t be mean,” Aziraphale told him. “You couldn’t be  _ not pretty _ if you tried. I’m sure you looked lovely.” Before Crowley could even try to wrap his head about what he’d just heard, Aziraphale added, “Is that why you are always wearing your glasses?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Crowley rubbed his eyes, feeling uncertain. “People found them creepy.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no. I  _ was _ creepy. I was a demon.”

"Of course, dear."

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale, even though he couldn't really see it. "What's with that tone?"

"What tone?" Aziraphale asked, acting perfectly innocent. He wasn't fooling anyone.

"That tone. Your  _ I'm agreeing to shut you up _ ,  _ but don't you dare think that I'm not tempted to draw up a fifty page list with reasons why you're wrong _ tone."

Aziraphale was quiet for a second, then he said, "That is an oddly specific description of a tone I  _ definitely _ never use."

"Angel," Crowley said. "You invented that tone. And I mean that literally. So what's up with it?"

Aziraphale probably would have bristled if he had been any less tired. As it was, he just sighed softly. "I just have some trouble thinking of you as a demon, Crowley. Just like I can't imagine my brother as - as an  _ archangel."  _ He paused. "Actually, he is much more demonic than you. He kept hiding my books when we were children."

Crowley couldn't say anything. Before the whole Antichrist thing, Aziraphale would never have  _ dared _ to say something like he had just said. Calling Gabriel demonic, he wouldn't even have done that after a dozen bottles of wine. Crowley was so surprised about that that he couldn't even be scandalized that Aziraphale had just called him  _ less _ demonic than  _ Gabriel.  _

No, scratch that. Actually, he was a little insulted.

"I  _ was _ a demon, though," Crowley muttered. "Annoyed lots of people. Did some…  _ really  _ nasty stuff."

Aziraphale yawned, half-heartedly covering his mouth with his hand. "For example?"

"Well, uh. I delivered the antichrist, for one thing, which -"

"Which went  _ exactly _ like it was supposed to."

"But I did deliver him! And I messed around a lot with - have you ever been on the M25? Bloody awful, right?"

"Oh, definitely."

"See? That was all me."

Aziraphale was quiet for a few seconds. Then, "No wars? No mass murders, or epidemics? Locusts or three days of darkness? Maybe -"

"The fall of man," Crowley cut in. "That one's on me, too."

"Darling," Aziraphale said. "That one's on Adam and Eve."

"Yeah, but I am  _ that _ snake. Was that snake. Whatever."

Aziraphale sighed and shifted a little, moving closer to Crowley. Their noses were almost touching now, so naturally Crowley forgot how breathing worked.

"I always thought that the serpent of Eden did nothing but offer Eve a choice God wasn't willing to give her," Aziraphale said finally, his tone still hushed. "And I am thankful, really. I'd rather decide what is right and wrong myself than have somebody else decide it for me. You do remember what I told you in St. Pauls, yes?"

"Yeah." Crowley could hardly forget that. "It's still blasphemy, what with you being an angel at all."

Aziraphale laughed. "I doubt that I have ever been a  _ good _ angel, dear, just like I doubt that you have ever been a good - or, well. A  _ bad _ demon, I suppose."

Sadly, Crowley couldn't argue against that.

After a moment, Aziraphale asked, "Can I tell you something?"

Crowley nodded a little warily. "M'all ears, angel."

"I wanted to become a vicar," Aziraphale said, "when I was younger. I finished studying theology, even."

Crowley had no idea what to do with that information. "I thought - I thought you don't believe in -"

"I don't." Aziraphale huffed. "Well, I am re-considering my entire worldview at the moment, of course, but - I wasn't a very religious man back then, at least. I grew up with it, though, and frankly I just thought it would make my family proud." He paused. Somehow, his hand had found his way to Crowley's side, and now it was just resting there. "My mother was fine with just about anything I did, as long as it made me happy. And my siblings - well, nothing I could do would make them proud. I realized that only a few weeks before my ordination, and then I just went and opened a bookshop instead."

"Huh," Crowley said, because he couldn't think of anything else. He still had to wrap his head around the thought that this, what Aziraphale was talking about right now, had really  _ happened.  _ It was difficult to imagine - a younger Aziraphale, just as blond and just as soft, trying to be something he didn't really want to be.

Well, maybe if wasn't  _ that _ difficult to imagine.

"I still…" Aziraphale trailed off, but started again after a moment, "I still feel guilty about it sometimes. Because I would have been good at it, you see - I would have helped many people, and still I decided that I simply didn't want to. That was quite selfish."

"Bullshit," Crowley told him softly. "I'm with your mum there. If it made you happy -"

"That is my point, dear," Aziraphale said. "It didn't. Make me happy, that is." He took a breath; it sounded oddly loud in the otherwise quiet room. "Well, I - I  _ thought _ it did. Because I had my books and my work and my privacy, and all of that does make me - content, in a way, but not… not more than that."

"Angel," Crowley tried, but Aziraphale didn't let him finish.

"People always found me odd," he said, speaking quickly now. "Off-putting, almost. And to be honest I often found them exhausting as well, because… all those things I see; that does get a bit too much after some time. So I was glad to be alone, and before I knew it I had grown so used to loneliness that I was almost fond of it. Do you - do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Crowley stared at him. Aziraphale took pity on him after a moment.

"I am trying to say that I  _ will _ be happy," he explained, "with you. That I already am happier than I have ever been before, even with all this confusing topsy-turviness going on. I do not care about what we were or did, because I  _ am _ selfish, Crowley." He was smiling now, his hand gently squeezing Crowley's hip. "And I love you too much to be scared away by anything at all."

"Ngk," Crowley said.

"Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. Was that too much?"

" _ No,"  _ Crowley got out. "Just -  _ topsy-turviness,  _ angel. Nobody says things like that, you know. It's -"

Aziraphale interrupted him with a kiss. It was brief and soft and made Crowley's thoughts come to a rather sudden, but definitely welcome halt. They finally stopped talking, then, deciding by silent but mutual agreement that it was too late to talk about anything anymore and that the best thing they could do was wrap themselves around each other and fall asleep.

Crowley had to admit that Aziraphale falling asleep on him was even better when it wasn't happening in a train.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, again, but I swear this chapter tried to kill me every time I just took a tiny look at it.
> 
> Anyway! Stay safe, friends, and I hope y'all are doing fine.❤

Crowley woke up because his pillow moved. It was a little bit disconcerting, because Crowley had so far lived under the assumption that moving and possibly even self-aware pillows weren't the norm. After a second he decided that it was worth investigating, but then he found that the pillow had already left the bed.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please go back to sleep.”

Ah. Right.

Crowley grunted and rolled onto his back, stretching before he propped himself up on his elbows. Dim sunlight was falling through the window and he could see Aziraphale crouching in front of his suitcase, riffling through his clothes with somewhat erratic movements. Crowley stifled a yawn.

“Time?”

“Too early for you, my dear, I should think,” Aziraphale replied, his voice just as jittery as his hands. “Really, you don't have to stay up. I'll be in the kitchen.”

He left the bedroom quickly and quietly. Crowley stayed where he was for a moment, still trying to wake up properly, but eventually he managed to drag himself out of the bedroom. He could hear water running in the bathroom and found the door open. Aziraphale was hunched over the sink, washing his face. He glanced at Crowley just briefly and his shoulders sagged a bit as he reached for a towel.

“I told you -”

“S'fine,” Crowley interrupted, leaning against the doorframe. “When do you have to be there?”

“Where?”

"Inverness? You're here to get that book from that collector, remember?"

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands while he dried them. “I called her and said I couldn't make it.”

Crowley stared at him. “What?”

“I called her and -”

“Yeah, I  _ got _ that, just - when?”

“Before we drove to Tadfield.”

“But you - you wanted to have that book.”

Aziraphale sighed. “There will be other opportunities. Maybe we could come back another time.”

Crowley didn't know what to say. Aziraphale had been looking forward to this for months, it simply wasn't fair that he'd had to cancel it now. 

“There's no reason to look so sad, dear boy,” Aziraphale said with a flimsy smile. His cheerful tone was entirely false, Crowley could tell. “I simply didn't feel like it anymore. All that… book buying and bookbinding -” He lifted  his shoulders and looked down as he put the towel back on its hanger. “It feels a little pointless, now that there's so much else to think about.”

“It's not pointless,” Crowley said. “It’s  _ you. _ We can still - you can still go, it's not like we have a deadline or anything, it's -”

“It’s  _ fine, _ Crowley. And besides, it was my decision to make, not yours, and I’d be glad if we could simply stop talking about it.”

With that Aziraphale walked past Crowley out of the bathroom and off into the direction of the kitchen, not even looking at Crowley properly. For a moment Crowley just looked after him, but then he sighed and returned to the bedroom to put on a jumper before he joined Aziraphale in the kitchen. He was making tea already, standing in front of the kettle and looking at it as if it had committed a capital crime like dog-earing book pages. Crowley came to stand next to him, leaning against the counter with crossed arms.

“What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale glanced at him darkly. He really was in a splendid mood now. “Nothing is wrong.”

Since that was very obviously a lie, Crowley just raised a brow.

Aziraphale huffed, his gaze landing on Crowley’s clothes. He frowned. “Is that my jumper?”

“It was the first thing I saw.”

“Oh.”

“Do you mind?”

Aziraphale shook his head and reached out to tug at the seam of the jumper, looking like he was lost in thought. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I don’t mean to be so difficult.” The kettle whistled, and Aziraphale turned back to it with a sigh. “I just didn’t sleep very well.”

Yes, Crowley had kind of figured. He knew that sleep didn’t come to Aziraphale easily, and he had probably just managed to sleep the night through because he’d been so exhausted yesterday. And, well, “the night through” was exaggerated, really; they had gone to bed after midnight and Aziraphale had gotten out of bed just briefly after sunrise.

“Any specific reason?” Crowley asked, watching as Aziraphale took two cups out of a cabinet. “Or just -” He gestured around a bit, hoping Aziraphale would understand.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said softly. “It’s all a little… much.”

Crowley agreed with a hum. He took the steaming cup of tea Aziraphale offered him and wrapped his hands around it. Aziraphale sat down at the kitchen table and avoided looking at Crowley. He looked impossibly exhausted, with his unkempt hair and bleary eyes. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had  _ noticed _ something again - maybe someone at the train station had lost their dog, or perhaps the woman who had given them they keys for their rental car had just been through a rough break-up. Things like that were usually what kept Aziraphale up at night, so Crowley knew now. Though anything like that probably wasn’t even needed right now, given that the mess they were in themselves was already impressive enough.

Crowley felt like he should say something, but he also felt like the silence had already lasted too long now, anyway, and he couldn’t think of any words he could say that wouldn’t make him sound like a prick. He wasn’t good at this. Then again, he couldn’t imagine that  _ anyone _ would be good at this, because this wasn’t a situation that could be set right by a few comforting words and a hug. This situation called for restless nights and shaking hands, and maybe a few bottles of wine.

“Hey, angel.”

“Hm?”

“What do you say if we -” Crowley stopped and cleared his throat. “I mean, let’s just go and have a nice day, eh? Drive into town and see if there’s a decent place where we can have breakfast, maybe go for a walk down at the water.”

Aziraphale seemed surprised, but just for a moment, then his eyes softened and he started to smile. “We should stock up our kitchen, too. Then we can cook something nice for dinner.”

“Sounds good to me,” Crowley said. “I’ll go and take a shower. If I can figure out how it works, that is.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“‘Cause it looks weird as hell. And I’d know.”

Aziraphale gave him a chiding look. “Crowley.”

“What? I hate showering in showers that aren’t mine. Bloody rocket science is easier.”

“I’m sure it is,” Aziraphale said dryly. He smirked, then, lifting his cup. “Well, call me if you need help, then. I’d be happy to assist.”

Crowley, who had just been downing the rest of his own tea, nearly spit it out again. Aziraphale simply continued smirking into his cup, even when Crowley started glaring at him.

“What’s it with you and innuendos since we’re here, huh?”

“I have no idea what you mean, my dear,” Aziraphale said, fooling absolutely nobody.

“Yeah, right.” Crowley set his empty cup aside. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Oh? Mere days ago you said I was an angel, Crowley. I think I like that better.”

“No, you don’t,” Crowley huffed and moved to leave the room.

He was tempted to believe that Aziraphale’s quiet laugh meant  _ yes. _

 

*

 

Later, they indeed found a place where they could sit and have breakfast that wasn’t decent as much as downright lovely, and Aziraphale’s mood was already much better. He gave the waitress a tip that was so high that she flushed and stuttered some helplessly thankful words, which seemed to cheer Aziraphale up a little more.

“She’ll need it for a wedding dress,” he told Crowley when they left the café, his smile bright. “Isn’t that lovely?”

Crowley didn’t ask how exactly he knew that, because it really didn’t matter. He just listened while Aziraphale rambled on about this and that, whatever he had on his mind at the moment, and told his own stories when he thought of some. It was pleasant, all this talking and hand-in-hand walking; it reminded Crowley a little of the time that had come soon after the not-end of the world, when they had spent Aziraphale’s lunch breaks walking around Soho and trying out whatever restaurant Aziraphale had picked out for that day. 

They did take a walk down at the water, and on the way back to the car they, or rather Aziraphale, got a little lost in a tiny antique store, where he didn’t buy anything even though he wanted to. (Crowley told the shop owner to put aside the trinkets Aziraphale had eyed especially long, so that they could come back and lose a lot of money another day.) They had a late lunch in Inverness, and on the way back to their cottage they stopped at a grocery store and have a small quarrel about whether or not putting frozen pizzas into the oven counted as “cooking something nice for dinner”. Crowley let Aziraphale win that round, but they bought the pizzas, anyway. And also some bottles of wine.

Then, being back in the cottage they would call  _ home, _ if only for the next three weeks, the mood shifted. Just a little and not downward, only sideways; they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. They ended up lazing around on the sofa, and at some point Aziraphale must have started to read out loud, because eventually Crowley realized that he had been listening to Aziraphale's voice for a rather long while now. 

Crowley was going to fall asleep if he didn't move anytime soon. He was very much against moving, though; in fact he was very much against everything that wasn't just lying there with his eyes closed and his feet and in Aziraphale's lap. He liked listening to Aziraphale, even though he had no idea what the book was even about, and was quite put out when Aziraphale suddenly stopped reading.

“Crowley?”

“Hngk.”

“Are you falling asleep?” Aziraphale asked, staggered. “It's almost time for dinner.”

Crowley sighed and opened his eyes. “M'not falling asleep. Totally awake, me.”

Aziraphale gave him a rather skeptical look before he stared down at his book again. He didn't start reading again, though, and his face was much too serious. Frowning himself, Crowley nudged Aziraphale's arm with his foot.

“What's up?”

Aziraphale glanced at him, but his eyes quickly returned to his book. “I just wanted to thank you.”

Crowley blinked at him. “For what?”

"For - well, for humouring me today, I suppose." Aziraphale's frown deepened. "Or all the time, really."

Crowley needed a moment to understand what Aziraphale was saying, and then he propped himself up on his elbows so that he could look at him properly. "Angel. I'm not humouring you."

"Oh, you are. I know you -"

"No, ngh, c'mon. I'm enjoying the stuff we do, okay? Don't tell anyone, though. It's ridiculous stuff."

Aziraphale finally looked up. His thumb was rubbing nervously at the corner of the book page, but every few seconds Aziraphale smoothened the paper, careful not to crinkle it. “You do? Like it, I mean.”

“Yes,” Crowley said slowly. “You  _ know  _ that.” 

Because he did, right? Of course he did. Sure, Crowley spent the better part of his time complaining about literally everything, but Aziraphale didn’t take that seriously; he knew Crowley too well for that. Had always known Crowley too well for that, and that hadn’t changed, even though many other things had. So this? This uncertainty, this nervousness - yes, there was something off about it.

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, so Crowley sat up completely, eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, too quickly. “I just thought - today was nice, wasn’t it? And if we could… if we could always be like we were today, without having to worry about - about all those complicated things, you see - if we could live like that. Wouldn’t that be…” He trailed off, needing a few seconds to come up with the right word. He finally settled on, “Good?”

"All those complicated things," Crowley repeated slowly. He felt somewhat numb all of a sudden, and he didn't know if he'd understood correctly.

"Yes." Aziraphale carefully closed his book and set it aside. "Adam gave us the choice, didn't he? So we could -"

"What are you asking me?"

"I'm not asking you anything -"

"No no no, you  _ are,  _ you're -"

"I'm just suggesting -"

"What, a human life? That's -"

"Ridiculous?" Aziraphale cut in. The word sounded unexpectedly sharp, and there was something defiant about the way he looked at Crowley. "I assure you that it isn't. We  _ are _ human, Crowley. And I may not remember what it was like not to be, but given the circumstances I think it would be better for both of us if we… well."

"What?" Crowley said. "If we what? Forgot everything  _ complicated?" _

Aziraphale made a face and looked down at his hands. "It's not an unreasonable suggestion, Crowley. Sure you see that."

"Yeah, right, okay, maybe it's not unreasonable for _you,"_ Crowley spat and stood up, unable to sit still anymore. "I mean, you'd just need to forget about the last week, eh? That's not much of a loss, is it? But _I -"_

"I  _ know,"  _ Aziraphale said. "I know, Crowley, I just want -"

"You've made what you want perfectly clear already! And it's bloody easy for you to say! But I can't just - I  _ can't -" _

Crowley cut himself off, this time, because what he'd just said just wasn't right, was it? He  _ could.  _ He could have forgotten everything very easily if he'd wanted to, at least if Adam was to be believed, and when that was what Aziraphale wanted, didn't that mean that Crowley  _ should?  _ He would have given up everything for Aziraphale, after all. That wasn't an exaggeration, not even a promise; it was simply a fact, and had been a fact since about six thousand millennia now. 

Crowley wasn't sure if he could do  _ this,  _ though. The only thing he was sure about was that he did not even want to think about it. Because this meant giving up six millennia worth of memories for a new, down-to-the-core human life; this meant giving up  _ Aziraphale _ for  _ Aziraphale. _

Crowley's head spun.

"I'm gonna go get some air," he said, his jaw clenched. The  _ s _ was only almost a hiss.

"Crowley," Aziraphale tried. "You can't just go now."

His tone was heartbroken and the look in his eyes devastated; Crowley didn't want to hear or see any of that. 

"Fucking watch me, angel," he snapped, and when he left the house, Aziraphale did not follow him.

 

*

 

In 1882, a German philosopher said:  _ God is dead.  _ The idea wasn't a new one. Before Friedrich Nietzsche there had been Gerárd de Nerval, and before Nerval there had been Georg Hegel, and before Hegel there had been Jean Paul.

Crowley had listened to them all. He had read Nietzsche's notes, even, had stared at the neat and narrow handwriting for only a few seconds, just long enough to raise a brow before turning away.

_ God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How do we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? _

Nerval had been a poet.  _ Dieu est mort! _ he had written.  _ Le ciel est vide - _

“Blasted poets,” Crowley muttered, to no one in particular. “ _ Bloody _ philosophers.”

He'd never been much for either. That had been Aziraphale's thing, really; he'd attracted artists and clever minds as if they had all been moths, and he a pretty flame. But when Crowley heard that humans were toying with the thought of the death of God, well - he'd been interested. But nothing had come of it, in the end; he'd just listened to the poems and read the words and then he had laughed, because what else could he have done? 

He walked around aimlessly, never straying too far away from the cottage. It was cold, but the night was dark and clear, and at least he could see the stars.

_Vide,_ he thought. _Empty._ _Heaven is empty._

How could heaven ever be empty?

He got tired of walking. Grumbling to himself because the grass was wet and uncomfortable, he sat down, and then he laid down so that he could look up propery, because  _ heaven's not empty, is it? Can't be. _

But Adam had said that it was. She wasn't  _ dead,  _ though, She just wasn't up there anymore. She was a part of the people now. She had given away the blank cards into the hands of humanity, and now they were sitting in this pitch-dark room alone, and the rules were something they had to create themselves. 

The stakes were still infinite.

_ If this is the end of your genius plan, miss, you've got to think it over. _

There was no answer, and there was no  _ thinking it over,  _ either. This wasn't mourning, was it? Crowley shouldn't mourn something he had lost thousands of years ago. That ship had sailed, the horse had bolted, there was no going back. Now even less so than before.

Crowley had prayed sometimes, though. Not often and never on purpose and he would certainly never have admitted it to anybody, and also it had made his entire skin itch every time he'd even thought about it - but he had done it. A handful of times. He had been in wars, after all. And he had known that Aziraphale had been in the same wars, and so it had happened, once or twice -  _ protect him. Keep him from doing anything stupid. And if this body of his dies,  _ **_bring him back to me._ **

And sometimes, but just sometimes:  _ Fine, then. I'll do it myself. _

Heaven had never been empty before. Unreachable and lost, yes, but not empty. And if it had been a tiny source of comfort sometimes, so what? Nobody would ever know. 

Nobody except Her, of course.

Maybe Crowley was praying now, too. Maybe She was even still there, unnoticed, hidden in the niches between the clockwork of the universe. The little bit of oil that kept it all going.

But that hardly mattered, now that Crowley had a decision to make. Maybe the knowledge that She wouldn't be able to judge him anymore should have helped, but somehow it just made him feel incredibly alone. He'd never felt it quite like this before, had never allowed himself to think about it too much, about what Adam had done to his father, and to Her. Now the thought made it difficult to breathe.

Everything made it difficult to breathe, really. There was the image of Aziraphale sitting in the small cottage, feeling similarly alone, and there was the anger that felt white-hot and tight in Crowley's chest.  _ All those complicated things.  _ The complicated things had been  _ their life,  _ thank you very much. Crowley couldn't just throw that all away, he  _ couldn't.  _

But he would, of course. Maybe the decision had already been made, maybe giving up Aziraphale for Aziraphale was not an impossibility at all. They would be happy, Crowley supposed. 

But how would it happen? How did this even  _ work?  _ Adam hadn't deigned to elaborate on that, or maybe he didn't really know it himself. He had left it to them to decide, but Crowley didn't even know how he was supposed to do that. Was this enough already, despite the reluctance curling in his stomach? Maybe he was forgetting things already. Maybe he would fall asleep in the grass and wake up in the morning and think,  _ my name is Anthony J. Crowley, I am a human in a human body with human memories, I have never had yellow eyes, I was born in Tadfield, I am not - _

"Crowley, you are going to catch a  _ horrid _ cold."

Crowley opened his eyes to find Aziraphale standing there, looking down at him. Crowley squinted, trying to see more of Aziraphale's face in the darkness.

"What?" he asked after a moment.

"Are you done getting air?" Aziraphale replied.

"No."

"Well, then. I brought blankets. Do you know how long I needed to find you? There isn’t a torch in the cottage, I didn’t even find  _ matches. _ Move a little, would you? Come, sit down.”

Aziraphale had spread one of his blankets on the ground, but Crowley didn’t move to sit down on it. He stayed lying in the grass, just staring at Aziraphale. After waiting for a few seconds, Aziraphale sighed and laid down next to Crowley, putting the second blanket he’d brought over them both.

It was silent for a while, then Crowley said, “What the hell are you doing.”

“I didn’t want you to be alone any longer.”

“I am  _ thinking.” _

“And far be it from me to keep you from that,” Aziraphale said, “but still. Unless - would you really like to be alone?”

Crowley had turned his head to look at him, speechless. 

Aziraphale seemed to take the silence as a no. “What are you thinking about?” he asked carefully, keeping his own gaze fixed on the sky.

Right. Fine. Whatever. 

“God,” Crowley replied. “And French poetry.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale thought about that, then said, “Are you  _ praying?” _

“I am  _ not _ praying. There’s no point to it, anyway. Not anymore.”

Aziraphale stayed silent at first, but eventually he said quietly, “No, I suppose there isn’t.”

Crowley swallowed thickly and looked away from Aziraphale, up at the sky. The view was really very nice, what with the stars twinkling happily and everything, but Crowley wasn’t able to appreciate it right now. He felt uncomfortable, and the night sky was just mocking him at this point.  _ Here, let me show you everything you had once, and everything you’ll forget. _

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his tone still quiet and soft, and Crowley didn’t want to hear it.

“I made them, you know,” he blurted out.

“Pardon?” 

Crowley gestured up at the sky, and Aziraphale needed a moment to understand what he meant.

“You didn’t,” he said then, dumbstruck.

“I did! I mean, not all of them. And not these. I - eh, it wasn’t my  _ task, _ really, they just didn’t know where to put me, so I tried a few things out, and that was -”

“Crowley, are you telling me that you  _ hung the stars?” _

Crowley winced. “Some of them. I hung some of them. I had no idea what they were for, really, and I - I made my way downward right after.” He frowned. “I would’ve liked to keep doing that, I think. Was a nice job.”

Silence, for a long while.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said then. “I had no idea you were an artist.”

“What? Ngh, I’m not -”

“But you must have been! I can’t even imagine how -  _ how _ did that even work? How did you -”

“What does it matter?” Crowley interrupted, sharper than intended. He could feel Aziraphale staring at him, but Crowley didn’t dare to look at him. “I’m going to forget it, anyway, aren’t I?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, unusually meek. "I'm so sorry."

Crowley huffed and pulled the blanket tighter around him, which just resulted in Aziraphale pulling the blanket back a little so that it still covered it him. “It’s not like it’s your fault,” Crowley said.

“No, I don’t mean -” Aziraphale stopped to take a breath. “I am talking about what happened earlier.”

Crowley eyed him warily. “I was the one who stormed out.”

Aziraphale let out a sigh. “Yes, but. Well, I thought about it, and I came to the conclusion that I have been very selfish, and also a coward.” 

“Huh,” Crowley said, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

Aziraphale tugged at the blanket again, but this time it was a nervous twitch of his fingers more than anything else. “I only saw the way that would be the easiest for me, and I didn’t think about how it would be the most painful one for you." 

Crowley sat up, looking at his hands, and after a moment Aziraphale followed suit. Crowley was freezing, but he barely noticed.

"It's not like I would remember how painful it was," Crowley said. He tried to make his voice sound light, but failed miserably.

"To be honest," Aziraphale said hesitantly, "I'm not sure about that. Adam didn't seem to be sure about the details, either. Based on everything he said, it could also be… a gradual process."

A gradual process. Yes, that was a possibility, and just imagining it made Crowley want to curl in on himself. Forgetting one thing after the other, slowly, until all those memories were replaced by new ones, that would be - a very creative punishment, almost.

"It would be beyond cruel," Aziraphale added quietly. "And no matter how it works, exactly, you shouldn't have to endure it."

"I would," Crowley said. "If you asked, I mean. I would."

"I know, Crowley," Aziraphale said, the words have with an odd mixture of affection and sadness. "But I'm not asking. I'm sorry I even suggested it."

"Nah." Crowley shook his head. "Don't be. It's - you had a point there, you know. It would be…"

He didn't know how to finish.

"I think we would have a lovely life." Aziraphale reached for Crowley's hand, entwining their fingers. "But we would also lose so very much. And against your six thousand years - well, my fifty really don't stand a chance.'

"No," Crowley said at once. "No, it's - it doesn't work like that. This isn't some kind of contest, angel, okay? It's not like you wouldn't sacrifice anything."

"No, of course I would," Aziraphale agreed. "But still, all in all I don't have anything to lose, do I? I will have you, and I will keep my bookshop. The mother I remember is dead, and the rest of my family - well, honestly I'd be happy to be rid of them."

Crowley frowned. "You'll still remember them, though. Just. Not as your, you know, human siblings. And I'm not sure what's worse, really."

"Yes, me neither," Aziraphale sighed. "Anywho, I - what I am trying to tell you is that I have made my decision." He squeezed Crowley's hand. "And given your reaction earlier, I… I think you have, too."

Crowley looked at him, hesitant. There was no point in denying that Aziraphale was right, that Crowley  _ had  _ made his decision - in the sense that he knew what he wanted. And maybe that was what counted? Crowley didn't know and at the moment he didn't even really care; the relief rushing through his veins made him lightheaded. Not quite lightheaded enough to forget what Aziraphale was agreeing to here, though.

"Are you sure?" Crowley asked. "Are you - you want to remember?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said firmly. "Yes, of course." He let out a nervous laugh. "I still am a coward, though, and I won't lie and say I am not scared, but - oh. Hello, dear."

Crowley huffed a laugh of his own. He'd surged forward and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pulling him as close as possible. He was blissfully warm, and Crowley wanted to melt right into him. Aziraphale chuckled softly and put his hands on Crowley's back, clutching his jacket.

Crowley pinched his eyes shut and, for just a few seconds, allowed himself to pray again. 

_ Bring him back to me. _


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me updating so soon! That hasn't happened since the dark ages! Anyway, this is mostly just fluff and feels and them rolling around in bed, so. Enjoy. ❤

“You're not a coward, you know.”

Aziraphale looked up from the plate he was drying, startled. “I'm sorry?”

Crowley shrugged. “You said that last night. It's not true.”

Aziraphale slowly put the plate into the cupboard, not looking at Crowley. After their conversation outside last night, they had soon returned to the cottage, mostly because Aziraphale had decided that dinner was as good a distraction as anything else, and after that they had both fallen asleep on the sofa. Even though they had stood up hours ago, Crowley's neck was still hurting - one of the peaks of having a mercilessly human body, he supposed. They hadn't left the cottage the whole day except for a long walk, and the atmosphere was still a little strained. They were both anxious, expecting that  _ something _ had to happen any passing second, but so far nothing whatsoever had changed. 

“As far as I know,” Aziraphale said after a long pause, “I was so scared that I couldn't even acknowledge that we were friends, let alone… more than that.” He cleared his throat. “That does sound cowardly to me.”

Crowley looked down at his hands, although he could barely even see them; his arms were elbow-deep in the water at the moment while his fingers searched for some cutlery on the bottom of the sink. Another peak of humanity, really. Having to do the dishes. Crowley hadn't done that even once before Adam had turned everything upside down.

“When you’re a demon,” Crowley told his hands, “and you fuck up - that is, if you do something  _ right, _ or if you just give the impression that you’re not as demonly as you should be - well, do you know what happens then?”

Judging by the look on Aziraphale's face, he didn't know, nor did he want to. "I doubt that it was pleasant," he said hesitantly.

"Well, if if you were lucky, you'd just get a horrid amount of paperwork. And if I say horrid I  _ mean _ horrid; you'd sit there for ages just," Crowley waved his hand, getting water all over his shirt, "signing and filing stuff, you know?"

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale said. "There is no more effective punishment than unnecessary and extensive paperwork."

Crowley raised his brows at him. That had sounded as if Aziraphale had endured said punishment himself once or twice.

In reaction to Crowley's look, Aziraphale lifted his shoulders and explained, "Gabriel has a similar policy regarding his employees. And his younger siblings."

Oh, Crowley could imagine that just perfectly. Being the oldest of the bunch, Gabriel had doubtlessly spent his teenage years being as much of a nuisance as was humanly possible. 

"If I ever see him again," Crowley said, "which I hope I won't, but  _ if _ it happens - I  _ will _ punch him."

That earned him a gentle swat with the towel, even though Aziraphale  _ did _ look reluctantly pleased. Crowley gave him a knowing look, and Aziraphale have him a stern look in response that wasn't very stern at all, because he was also smirking.

"Yes, anyway," Aziraphale said, apparently tired of the topic. "You were saying?"

"Huh?"

"Paperwork," Aziraphale reminded him, "if one was lucky. And if… What if one wasn't lucky?"

"Oh." Crowley sobered rather quickly and turned back to the sink. He handed Aziraphale the next plate to dry. "Yes, right. Well. There was torture. All sorts of it. And, if you were  _ especially _ unlucky, they'd just straight up obliterate you. No questions asked. Though that still would've been better than the torture, I guess."

Aziraphale stayed quiet for too long, and when Crowley dared to look at him again, the former angel had grown horribly pale. Crowley had expected that, but it still made him wince.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said faintly. "Please tell me that they - that they didn't -"

"No," Crowley hurried to assure him. "No, it was always just paperwork for me, don't worry, I was - they really liked me down there, you know, because I - uh, because of the whole apple business, and also I kept telling them I did things I didn't even do and they were just too lazy and too stupid to check, so I - I got away with a lot of stuff. Thing is, I -" Crowley took a breath. "I probably wouldn't have gotten away with… being with you."

Aziraphale needed just a second to understand, and the look in his eyes needed just that second to become all soft and painful. “Crowley.”

Crowley just shrugged and looked back down at his hands. “I didn't mind, not much. I Fell from Heaven, right, so there - there wasn't anything they could have done to me that would have been worse than that. But you -” Crowley swallowed and continued speaking to the sink, unable to look at Aziraphale. "You worried so much. Always. Tried to protect me, too, even though I was - well. Me. You just protected me differently than I protected you. I took bloody ages to understand that."

He glanced at Aziraphale, but he just looked at Crowley, his eyes still wide.

“I mean, yeah,” Crowley said quietly. “Yeah, you were scared. Scared of Falling, for one thing, which - can't hold that against you, really, because you Falling was like, the worst thing I could even imagine. I was scared of that, too, always scared of - I don’t know. Staining you. Somehow. Because you in Hell, that would've been -” Crowley shook his head; he couldn't get out the words. _Worse_ _than Falling was, for me. Shit, I would've Fallen a hundred times more if it had just kept you safe._

“But you were also scared of what they would do to me,” he forced himself to continue. “You - you were trying to keep me safe, to keep us both safe, and you did that the only way you knew how. Pretending that we weren’t even anything, it kept us safe. I'm not angry at you, angel, and you shouldn't be, either.”

“You aren't?” Aziraphale sounded desperate, almost, and seemed to have forgotten all about the towel in his hands. “You're not angry?”

Crowley looked at him, his own eyes widening when he saw that Aziraphale’s were wet.  _ Damn. _ “No, ‘course not. It was messed up, the whole thing. But it was still us, so - it was all good.”

“Come here,” Aziraphale said, impatient.

Crowley frowned and and took his hands out of the water. Aziraphale immediately reached for them and dried them with the towel. “Crowley, dear,” he said, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. “Your standards are too low.  _ Much _ too low.”

Crowley stared at him, confused. “What?”

“You shouldn’t allow anybody to… to make you feel unwanted, or unloved,” Aziraphale explained carefully. “No matter if they are just doing it to protect you or - It just isn’t  _ right. _ ”

“I told you, angel, I’m not angry.”

“I’m not saying you should be, given the circumstances, but -” Aziraphale swallowed and finally looked at Crowley again. “I just want you to know that you  _ are _ loved, very much so and  _ always _ , and if I ever again make you feel like you aren’t, for any reason whatsoever, I do want you to be very cross with me.”

“Okay,” Crowley said, even though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to, exactly. “But - look, I did know that you liked me, okay? Don’t think I didn’t. I mean, yes, love is a whole other thing and stuff, but I - do you know often we got drunk together? I always knew you didn’t detest me, even though everyone and their mum knew that you should have. That was enough for me.”

Aziraphale sighed.  “Yes, that is exactly what I mean by low standards.”

“I really don’t have low standards, though,” Crowley said, blankly. “I mean,  _ you _ meet them.”

Aziraphale blinked, and then he laughed. “ _ You,” _ he said, “are a hopeless romantic.”

“Am not.”

“You are. You keep saying the loveliest things without even being aware how -”

“I do  _ not -” _

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a pointed look that meant as much as  _ stop arguing, we both know I’m right,  _ and then he went and kissed Crowley, which made him forget about arguing, anyway.

They didn’t kiss enough. That was a fact now. It was also the reason why Crowley leaned right back in after they had pulled apart to take a few breaths. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, if anything he pulled Crowley even closer, his hands firm and warm on Crowley’s waist. Crowley found that this was very nice indeed, that he liked pressing Aziraphale against the counter and kissing him until his breaths were all shallow and ragged, until Crowley himself forgot how breathing even worked.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a brief moment between kisses.  _ “Crowley. _ Should we - that is, if you - maybe we could take this to bed?”

Crowley’s brain short-circuited. The only words he came up with were, “We’re not done with the dishes.”

“Forget the fucking dishes,” Aziraphale said, breathlessly, and Crowley’s brain went from a short circuit to a full on and irreversible system failure. 

_ “Aziraphale,” _ he spluttered, with a laugh that was both stunned and impressed. He’d known that his angel could curse, all right, but it still caught him by surprise every time he heard it.

“Yes, that’s me,” Aziraphale said primly. “And I’m still waiting for a proper answer here, darling, so -”

“Okay,” Crowley interrupted. “Shit, yes. Alright. Let’s go to bed.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. Before Crowley could get seriously nervous they were already kissing again, and then there were on the way to the bedroom, somehow, and then they were in the bedroom and then they were  _ on the bed _ and yes, nevermind that, Crowley  _ was _ already seriously nervous. 

Outside, the sun was setting. The last rays of this day were falling through the little window and Crowley, just having landed on his back on the bed and staring up at Aziraphale, felt vaguely like he was going to discorporate. Only that wasn’t possible, of course, not anymore. Dying was possible, though. Maybe this was some sort of demonic leftover; maybe happiness just was something his body couldn’t deal with. Maybe -

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. For some inexplicable, marvellous reason he was on top of Crowley, half lying on and half straddling him, his hands on each side of Crowley’s head. His eyes were unusually dark. “Are you quite alright?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley breathed out.

“Are you sure? We can -”

Crowley put his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss. The noise Aziraphale made was a revelation, and Crowley did plan to revel in this as much and as long as he could. He’d just keep on kissing Aziraphale all night; forget about eating and talking,  _ this _ was what mouths were made for. 

“Wait, let me -” Aziraphale’s breath was warm on Crowley’s lips, his laugh even warmer. 

Crowley grinned back, even though he had no idea why Aziraphale was laughing in the first place, and propped himself up on his elbows when Aziraphale pulled his jumper over his head and tossed it aside with uncharacteristically little care.

“That’s going to get crinkled,” Crowley said, earning himself a  _ look. _ “M’just saying.”

“I find myself very uninterested in possible crinkles at the moment,” Aziraphale informed him, and then he opened the first button of his dress shirt.

Crowley had had a clever reply ready - or at least some sort of reply -, but his tongue refused to do as it was told as soon as his eyes spotted the patch of skin Aziraphale had just revealed.

“Hngk,” he said.

“Pardon?” 

Crowley sat up as well, and after a bit of squirming and maneuvering Aziraphale was comfortably seated in Crowley’s lap, his ankles crossed at Crowley’s lower back. The weight of him was the most pleasant thing; he was so warm that Crowley just wanted to melt right into him.

“Can I,” he said, but stopped, because the connection between his tongue and his brain still hadn’t recovered. Thankfully, Aziraphale understood him, anway. 

“Oh! Yes, of course.”

So Crowley opened the next buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt himself, his traitorous fingers trembling slightly. Soon enough, the shirt joined the jumper on the floor, and Crowley stared at the chest hair he could see now, almost-white and looking very soft. Aziraphale was still wearing a singlet, though, which was - not disappointing, because nothing about this could possibly be disappointing, but still.

“You’re wearing too many layers,” Crowley said, his voice rough.

“It keeps me from freezing the whole time.” Aziraphale sniffed. “I know someone who  _ might _ benefit from a few more layers as well -”

And then they were kissing again, because Aziraphale was ridiculous and Crowley loved him, very much so. Aziraphale lost his undershirt, too, and Crowley lost his shirt, and then there were warm hands on his upper body and a soft chest pressed against Crowley’s and somehow they laid down again. Crowley on Aziraphale, this time, which was just as good. Aziraphale’s hands on his back and his mouth on his were so gentle that Crowley shuddered, every once in a while. Crowley could barely stay away from Aziraphale’s lips long enough to take a proper look at him, but he did manage to get his hands all over that chest beneath him. Judging by his staggering breaths, Aziraphale seemed to like that. Crowley drank in his reactions - the gasp when Crowley’s fingers brushed over a nipple, the slight flinch when Crowley touched his side; maybe he was ticklish. What a thought. Another revelation; they were piling on top of each other now, one after the other until Crowley’s head spun with them.  _ Happiness. _

What an odd concept.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked, panting, when they pulled apart long enough that he could talk.

“Yeah,” Crowley got out, bracing himself on the mattress to look down at Aziraphale. “S’bloody perfect.”

Aziraphale smiled, then grinned, then laughed, and Crowley joined in because he just couldn’t help it. 

“Good,” Aziraphale managed. “Jolly good, yes.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley told him, and then they continued to laugh, quietly and breathlessly, until Aziraphale flipped them over again.

His hands on Crowley’s shoulders were gentle as he pushed him into the bed, but his kiss was starting to get somewhat urgent, which was something Crowley could relate to very well. He made an impatient noise when Aziraphale pulled away again, but was promptly distracted by how Aziraphale looked right now. Pupils blown eyes, red lips parted, his hair a mess.  _ Oh. _ Crowley’s heart wasn’t going to survive this.

“I would,” Aziraphale said, breath hitching, but didn’t finish the sentence. He seemed distracted, careful fingers stroking over Crowley’s chest. “Darling, you’re beautiful.”

Crowley could feel a blush crawl all the way up into the tips of his ears. “Ngk.”

Aziraphale wriggled around a little, his smile very fond. “I would like to be inside you, I think,” he said then, matter-of-factly, as if that was something people just  _ said. _

Crowley stared at him, long enough that Aziraphale seemed to get uncertain.

“Or - or the other way around, if you like that better? I have no real preference - and if you don’t like that sort of thing at all, of course we don’t have to -”

“No,” Crowley cut in. “No, I just. Hngk. Never. I’ve never.”

Aziraphale blinked slowly. “Never?”

Crowley shook his head. His blush was intensifying, he knew it.

“Six thousand years, and you  _ never -” _

Crowley shook his head again.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said. “Oh. Did you - that one time in your flat, was that… the  _ first _ time you…?”

Crowley swallowed. Lying to Aziraphale wouldn’t work, anyway, he knew that. “Yeah…?”

“Oh, love, why didn’t you say?”

“Say?” Crowley echoed dumbly.

Aziraphale considered him for a moment, expression softening. “Well, nevermind. My request stands, dear. Would you like to try -”

“Yes,” Crowley said, because everything was better than talking about this, and  _ that _ would definitely better than talking about this. “Sure. Let’s.”

Aziraphale smiled and leaned down to kiss him again, which, yes. Much better. Sadly, they kissed just long enough for Crowley to relax again, then Aziraphale pulled back and even stood up, hurrying over to his bag that sat in one corner of the room. On the way back to the bed he took off his socks,  and before he crawled back to Crowley, he threw two packages onto the bed - lube and a condom, because naturally he had packed them. Crowley couldn’t do anything but try to keep breathing and also raise a brow.

“Planned this, did you?”

“I like to be prepared for all eventualities,” Aziraphale said and then his hands were on Crowley’s shoulders again, pushing him back down, and from there on there wasn’t much coherent talking anymore.

Aziraphale was slow and gentle, so overwhelmingly gentle, and he checked whether Crowley was alright far too often; Crowley fell apart under his hands so quickly that it was embarrassing. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, though. His smile was so bright that it was almost too much, and his voice a soft and breathy murmur, muttering praise after praise after praise. Crowley had never quite understood why everyone made such a fuss about this sort of thing - sex had always been more Aziraphale’s thing, hedonist that he was -, but when Aziraphale slipped into him with one smooth thrust, Crowley thought he got it now. The pleasure was blinding, in the end, the closeness so  _ much - _ Crowley didn’t know how people could even handle this; how did they carry on with their lives, after? How did they ever stop doing this? He wanted to keep Aziraphale just as he was now, naked and soft and warm, his breaths ragged and his smile crooked, pressed into Crowley’s skin. Crowley held onto him so tightly that his nails probably left marks.

That image was much more appealing than it should have been.

After, there wasn’t anything but this: Aziraphale’s forehead on Crowley’s while their both caught their breath, Crowley’s legs still around Aziraphale’s face, unwilling to let him go. Aziraphale smiled, pressed his lips to the corner of Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley raised his chin to kiss him properly, sluggish and somewhat clumsy, and unhurried. 

There was no need for hurry anymore.

 

*

 

“I love you,” Aziraphale said, later, after they had reluctantly disentangled themselves from each other and also cleaned up a bit. “You do know that, yes?”

Crowley, who had been about to fall asleep, blinked his eyes open again. They were both lying on their sides, facing each other. Aziraphale had opened a window to let some air in, and by now Crowley had started to freeze a little. He almost didn’t mind, because he was tired and very, very comfortable.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

Aziraphale smiled and reached for Crowley’s hand that was resting between them on the pillow. “Good.”

“And I love you, too.”

“Also good.”

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale kept smiling, but he looked thoughtful.  “What’s on your mind, huh?”

Aziraphale lightly shook his head. “Nothing much. I suppose I just… I am happy that we did this now. Before I change.”

Crowley didn’t really know what to make of that. He swallowed. “You’re not going to change, angel,” he said softly. “You’ll still be you.”

Aziraphale’s smile was faint. “Can you promise me that?”

Months ago, Crowley had stood in front of a shop window in Soho and read about the reasonable opening hours of a bookshop that shouldn’t have had reasonable opening hours at all. He had watched someone he knew inside out, someone who would never have given away just one of his books, sell a book to a stranger. Back then, Crowley had thought that Aziraphale must have changed completely and terribly, and well - he guessed that Aziraphale  _ had _ changed, quite a bit. But he also hadn’t, and Crowley had recognized him from the very start, had seen him smile at that customer and thought,  _ yeah, no doubt, that’s him. _ Crowley had never not recognized him, and he had never not loved him. This life was just - slightly new, and they were as well. They would still be slightly new when Aziraphale would remember, but they would still be  _ them, _ and in the end slightly new wasn’t all too bad.

“Yes,” Crowley said. “I can. I promise.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, and then he nodded. “Alright.”

And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, we're almost at the end and I'm already sad. Two more chapters to go, I think? Be prepared.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to myself: Do not post Good Omens stuff on your phone because it _will_ make you forget about all the footnotes. 
> 
> Anyway! We're almost at the end. Enjoy. ❤

Crowley stared at the plant in front of him, noticing for the first time that he had made a horrible mistake. It was odd that it had taken him so long to realize, but to be fair he _had_ been fairly busy with other things. Now that he was standing in a literal garden, though, it was difficult not to notice.

“This one is just lovely, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said next to Crowley. “And so big, too.”

“I forgot about my plants,” Crowley said.

“Hm?”

“I forgot about my plants,” Crowley repeated with a groan. “Fuck. They’re gonna - I’m just so used to them being bloody _fine_ even if I’m not there! I mean, they knew better than be anything but fine back before the Almostaggedon, but now - they’re just going to die. Shit.”

"The _Almostaggedon?"_ Aziraphale repeated, amused. "Is that really what we call it?"

"Is _that_ what you're concentrating on?"

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said hurriedly and took Crowley's hand. "Of course not, dear, I'm sorry. You really didn’t ask a neighbour to water your plants every once in a while?”

“I don’t _talk_ to my _neighbours,_ Az. Who do you think I am?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well, then. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it, either. But I’m sure at least a few of them will survive, and when we’re back in London you can get new plants, yes?” He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Maybe you can even find some inspiration here, hm?”

Crowley huffed, but he did try to stop thinking about his poor plants when Aziraphale pulled him further down the way, already chattering about which of these plants Crowley could grow at home. They were in the botanic gardens in Inverness, because Aziraphale had decided that they couldn’t just stay in bed the whole time. Which was a shame, but Crowley hadn’t protested all too much; he actually was interested in these gardens. He’d never been here before. And besides, not thinking about their current situation for once was kind of nice.

Four days had passed since their decision, and there still hadn’t been an changes yet. It put them both on edge. Crowley had even texted Anathema already, asking whether they could expect anything to happen in the next twenty years or so, and she in return had asked Adam, who had said that, no, it should not take twenty years, because that would be stupid.

So, yes. That had been very helpful.

Anyway, the garden was very pretty. So Aziraphale said, at least, and Crowley had to admit that he wasn’t wrong, even though it was very clear that nobody had scared and bullied all these plants into being pretty. They walked around aimlessly, arguing about the pronunciation of certain Latin words, and fully planned on having dinner in a very nice restaurant later, where Aziraphale would let himself be tempted to eat half of Crowley’s dessert and then pretend to feel bad about it before they would leave to return to their cottage, only slightly tipsy from almost too sweet champagne.

None of that was going to happen that night.

“Now that's a very complicated name,” Aziraphale said, squinting at the tiny sign that belonged to a large cactus. “ _Myrtillocactus geometrizans forma cristata.”_

“You pronounced that wrong.”

“I did not,” Aziraphale said, considering the cactus. “I like _Dinosaur Back Plant_ better, I think.” He turned to Crowley with a wide smile. “A funny name, isn't?”

“Yeah, very funny.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that was probably meant to chastise Crowley for his lack of enthusiasm, then he looked back at the cactus with a slight crease between his eyes. “Crowley, what happened to the dinosaurs?”

“What?”

"The dinosaurs," Aziraphale repeated. "Did they even exist?"

“Sure did,” Crowley said. “I mean, there's fossils and everything." He lifted his shoulders. “They weren't in the garden, though, and when we left the garden, they'd already. You know. Died."

“Oh. The poor dears.” Aziraphale was still frowning. “If we told any scientists about this, they would have us committed.”

“Yup.”

“Why aren't they included anywhere?” Aziraphale asked, curious. “In the bible, I mean, or -”

“Who, the scientists?”

Aziraphale snorted. “No. The dinosaurs.”

“Right. Uh. Well, nobody knew about them back then, obviously. You and me, we'd sort of just heard that they'd been a thing at all, and we never really thought to tell anyone, I guess?” Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets, shrugging again. “I mean, I did try to convince them to include dinos in all that writing they were doing, because that would've been funny, but eh. Went down like a lead balloon, really.” He looked at the cactus, thoughtful. “This _is_ cool, though. Do you think anyone would notice if I -”

“What?” Aziraphale interrupted him. “What did you say?”

Crowley peered at him over the edge of his glasses. “I said it's cool. The cactus. And -”

“No, no. Before that. I - oh, goodness.”

Only now Crowley noticed that Aziraphale had gotten terribly pale. His eyes were wide, the look in them more stunned than shocked, and he stared at Crowley and yet not really at him; maybe he wasn't even seeing him properly at all.

“Hey,” Crowley said, instantly worried. He put his hand on Aziraphale's arm and leaned forward, trying to get Aziraphale to look at him. “What's going on? What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, but it sounded a little absent. “Nothing. I think - I think everything is working out just fine. Just like we - oh.”

“Oh? _Oh?_ What does that even _mean?_ Are you -”

“Could we sit down? I feel like I might faint.”

“You are _not_ going to faint,” Crowley decided, now properly panicked, and steered Aziraphale over to the nearest bench.

Aziraphale all but dropped down on it, wringing his hands in his lap and looking at Crowley, still wide-eyed and by now also a little scared, but at least definitely conscious.

Crowley's heart was beating so fast that it felt like it was about to crawl up his throat. The latter was already tightening, just like Crowley's chest, and all in all he feared that he would faint himself. He couldn't, though, because if this really meant what he thought it meant, fainting was _absolutely_ not an option for either of them.

“Okay," Crowley said, trying to keep calm. "Okay, this is - _is_ this - I mean."

“Yes,” Aziraphale said.

“Yes?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“You're not going to faint. Are you going to faint? Do you want to leave? C'mon, angel, talk to me. What do you need?”

“I,” Aziraphale said, but he didn't manage anything else at first. There was a long pause, a very long pause, a _too_ long pause, but finally Aziraphale said, “Do you remember the first time we met?”

Crowley could just look at him blankly. What kind of question was that? Meeting Aziraphale had changed _everything;_ of course Crowley remembered.

“Because I -” Aziraphale interrupted himself, swallowing thickly. His voice was weak when he continued, “Because I think I do, now.”

Crowley stopped breathing. “Are you sure?”

Aziraphale nodded again, but somehow that wasn't enough. It couldn't be right, it couldn't be _true._ It couldn't just - be this easy. Of course, 'easy' wasn't the word Crowley would use to describe anything that had happened and was still happening, but after months of agonizing and fearing that Aziraphale would never remember _anything,_ this felt unreal. As if Crowley was watching it from afar, rather than sitting right next to Aziraphale on the bench.

“There was… lots of sand,” Aziraphale said haltingly. “Below us. The height was - it made me a little nervous. Or was I nervous about -” He made a slightly annoyed sound, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes. “There was something I'd done, I -”

“The sword.” Crowley's voice sounded dull in his own years. “You'd given away the -”

“The sword, yes.” Aziraphale took a stuttering breath. His hands were fidgeting now, and after a moment he pressed them between his thighs to keep them still. “You had longer hair.”

Crowley didn't say anything.

“It looked lovely,” Aziraphale added, as if he was scared that Crowley might think otherwise. “And your eyes were - oh. Now I understand what you meant by 'snakey', dear.” He frowned. “I have to admit that I've grown quite fond of the brown ones you've got now. Although, I think I was fond of your earlier ones, too - of course I was. Do you think we - Crowley?”

By now, Crowley's throat was so tight that he _could_ not say anything, even if he had known what.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, much softer. “Darling, are you okay?”

Crowley gulped and moved his head, trying to nod and shake his head at the same time, which didn’t work out all too well. “M’fine,” he got out, wretchedly.

“You’re crying, love.”

“I’m _not_ crying,” Crowley said, but his tone lacked sharpness. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, not looking at Aziraphale. “Is there - anything else?”

“No,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Nothing much beyond the garden. Not yet. Now come here, will you?”

And so they hugged, although that word is not very apt to describe what they were doing. They clung to each other in a glasshouse full of cacti, and Crowley did cry a little, although he didn’t even really know why. He should have been relieved, he should have been _happy_ \- and he was, of course he was, but this was also a lot to take in, for both of them.[1] Crowley wanted to crawl into a warm bed and sleep for a few days, but he couldn’t just leave Aziraphale alone like that. They would do this _together,_ and so everything would be alright.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asked when they pulled apart after long minutes, his hands still in Crowley’s shoulders.

Crowley sniffed. “Ngh. I should be asking _you_ that.”

“Oh, I’m fine, don’t you worry. Well, my head does hurt a bit, but I’ll live.” Aziraphale pulled a handkerchief out of his pockets and gave it to Crowley. “Here. I’m just glad that it isn’t returning all at once; I do think that would be a little much. When will the rest come back, what do you think?”

“How would I know?” Crowley replied. “And you - you’re feeling fine? Really?”

“Yes, really,” Aziraphale said. Then, “I think I lied to God.”

Crowley, who had been about to blow his nose, stilled. “You _what?”_

Aziraphale squirmed on the bench, his cheeks a little pink. “What else was I supposed to do? There was that voice asking me about that sword, and I couldn’t just admit where I had put it, now could I? So I acted as if -”

“You never told me that!”

“Of course I didn’t! It’s _very_ unbecoming for an angel, isn’t it?”

“You do realize She knew, anyway, yeah?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said primly, “then asking me was rather unnecessary and probably just made us both uncomfortable.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment, overcome by such a strong wave of fondness that he didn't know what to do with himself. “Only you, Aziraphale,” he said, then finally blew his nose. 

 

*

 

They left the gardens and returned to the cottage, where Aziraphale voluntarily took a nap on the sofa to sleep off his headache. Crowley stayed awake and he also stayed nervous; he just couldn't help but feel like something was going to happen, something that would make an even messier mess of everything.

But well, nothing really happened. Aziraphale woke up eventually and unsurprisingly claimed that he was hungry, and then they had frozen pizza for dinner because they were too lazy for anything else. All in all, the evening and night were spent as every other so far, and in the morning they decided to stick by the plan they had made the day before and drive east. They strolled around Nairn a bit before making their way to the beach; they had brought everything they needed for a lunchtime picnic.

It was too cold for a picnic, really, and also so windy that they had to collect some stones on the beach that they could put on their blanket to keep it from just flying away. In the end, it didn't really make a difference; they could have sat in the sand just as well. There was sand everywhere, anyway.

They had gone on a picnic together before. Crowley remembered it clear as day, that afternoon on Primrose Hill. The weather had been much better back then, but Crowley still felt more comfortable. His earlier anxiousness had slowly morphed into something akin to hope, something that made him grin at Aziraphale every time their eyes met. Oddly enough, Aziraphale never seemed to get tired of grinning back.

Two picnics, then. They were long overdue for the Ritz.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, brushing sand off his feet for the thirtieth time, “I remember the first time I saw the sea.”

Crowley looked at him. “Yeah?”

“Yes. It must have been briefly after Eden. I was still wearing that white,” he gestured at himself, “thing. You weren't there, though.”

“Hm. We parted ways, sort of. For a couple of centuries or so.”

“Ah. Well, I remember thinking about you. When I saw the sea.” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, then turned his eyes back to the shore. “I wondered if you'd seen it already, too.”

“Really?”

Aziraphale hummed. “I was lonely. Not that that's surprising.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said slowly. “I mean - we both were. Lonely. Came with the job. That's why we became friends.”

“No.” Aziraphale nudged one of Crowley's outstretched legs with his own foot. “We became friends because we make a good match. That's a very important difference.”

Crowley made a noncommittal sound and let himself fall back, head pillowed on his hands. He was still wearing his thick coat - it _was_ cold - and the sand would absolutely ruin it, but it was a little late to worry about that now.

“I mean it,” Aziraphale said, insistent. “Really, Crowley, do you think I would have spent any time at all with a different demon? Please. Can you imagine _me_ with -”

He stopped.

Crowley had closed his eyes, but now he opened one of them again to look up at Aziraphale. “With?”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “The one with the lizard?”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Ligur. And it was a chameleon.”

“Yes, anyway. My point stands.”

Crowley snorted. He couldn't imagine Aziraphale with Ligur, either. The angel would have smitten him after just a few days, probably. But well, Ligur was dead, anyway, and if any other demons still existed, they didn't remember. They would most definitely stay away from Aziraphale, and that was a rather calming thought.

For a while, there was nothing except the sound of the wind and the waves, but eventually Aziraphale said, “Isn't it odd?”

“Huh?”

Aziraphale let out a soft sigh. He was watching the waves, brow crinkled in thought. “I also remember the other first time I saw the sea,” he explained quietly. “I was - oh. Six or seven, something like that. My mother took us down to Brighton. Sandy spent the whole train ride talking about how he wanted to catch some fish, but of course he didn't manage.”

“Sandy,” Crowley repeated, drawing the syllables out.

Aziraphale gave him a secretive look. “I'd gotten the whole family to call him that. It was my revenge for the one time he'd thrown one of my books out of the window.”

“The worst crime of them all,” Crowley said, seriously.

“I am _so_ glad you agree _._ ”

Aziraphale was full on beaming, not so secretly smug now, and Crowley had to laugh. Aziraphale joined in, but it didn't take long until he fell silent again. He didn’t say anything, but Crowley could guess what he was thinking well enough. They still didn’t really know how this worked, exactly, so maybe Aziraphale’s memories of his human life would fade while his memories of his angelic life returned. It didn’t seem fair to Crowley, but well - nothing about this had ever really been fair. He felt bad about it, anyway, mostly because it was at least sort of his fault, given that Aziraphale wouldn’t even know the slightest thing about this if Crowley had just managed to stay away from him. Crowley had tried apologizing for that exactly once, at dinner the day before, but Aziraphale had been quick to assure him that it was neither necessary nor justified. But, still - Aziraphale was losing a bit of himself here, most of all the ability to return to his life as it had been before, and Crowley couldn’t just stop worrying about that. He believed that Aziraphale couldn’t, either, although it did seem like he had already made his peace with his decision.

They stayed at the beach for a while longer, but eventually the wind and the cold made them pack their things. At first, the drive back to Inverness is quiet and comfortable, Freddie Mercury singing against the drumbeat of rain that had started to fall.[2]

“Oh.”

By now, Crowley already knew what that sound meant. “Something else?”

Aziraphale did one of his wriggles. “The first time I saw the Bentley.”

“Oh. Yes, right, uh - “

“I was _awfully_ wary of it.” A sideward glance at Crowley, a smirk. “Rightfully, of course. You've never been a fan of speed limits, have you?”

Crowley shrugged, keeping his gaze on the street. He remembered the first time Aziraphale had seen the Bentley, that look of shock and confusion on his face, as if he'd known right then and there that Crowley would be a menace behind the wheel. Aziraphale had never been a fan of speed. 

But really, that first ride had hardly been the most remarkable thing about that day. It was only a matter of time until Aziraphale became aware of that, and sure enough -

“I healed your feet,” he said, slowly, as if his tongue didn't quite know what to do with the words. "Back at the bookshop. Was that -”

“The thing in the church," Crowley cut in. “We talked about it.”

Aziraphale looked out of the car window. Thinking, probably. “You didn’t tell me about the books,” he said finally, his tone careful.

Crowley made a face. “It’s not important.”

“It meant the world to me.”

Crowley glanced at him, but Aziraphale was still watching the landscape pass them by. Crowley got more and more nervous with every moment that passed, because he couldn’t tell what exactly was going on in his angel’s head. Could be anything. Maybe he was miffed because Crowley hadn’t told him the whole story, maybe this would turn into another _too fast_ conversation; Crowley’s brain came up with so many awful possibilities in the span of just a few seconds that concentrating on the street became more and more difficult. He expected pretty much anything, as long as it was uncomfortable in some way, but he _certainly_ hadn’t expected this:

“Move in with me,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley hit the brakes.

Aziraphale let out a startled sound that was very nearly a yelp, clinging to the car door. “ _Really,_ Crowley, was that necessary?”

“What did you say?” Crowley demanded, staring at him with wide eyes.

The look Aziraphale gave him was just a tiny bit annoyed. “Move in with me,” he repeated. “I didn’t think that would startle you quite this much.”

“Move in with you?” Crowley took off his glasses and tossed them into the cup holder. “You can’t want me to move in with you.”

“Please don’t tell me what I can and cannot want, dear.”

“But -”

“But what?”

“But,” Crowley said, “why?”

Aziraphale sighed, eyes softening. “Because I like being with you. And if you like being with me, too, I don’t see a reason why we shouldn’t live together.” A beat. “Unless you really would prefer to keep your own place, of course. I would completely understand if you don’t wish to spend _all_ your time in my flat; I suppose it is a bit small. But I wouldn’t be all too comfortable in yours, I think, not in the long run - by which I don’t mean that I don’t _like_ it, just -”

“You’re rambling,” Crowley informed him. “You - you’ve been _thinking_ about this.”

“Of course I’ve been thinking about this,” Aziraphale said. “Haven’t you?”

Crowley stared at him long enough that Aziraphale started squirming.

“It’s just,” he said, “well, it’s quite clear that this is going to last, isn’t it? It’s clear to me, at least. That is, I want it to -” He cleared his throat. “All these things are coming back, and I have been wanting this for so _long_ that I - maybe I’m assuming too much. I’m sorry.”

For a brief moment, Crowley contemplated throwing himself out of the car. Maybe that would let him get rid of all that pent up _stuff_ in his chest. It felt too good. Was there a cliff somewhere near? He couldn’t handle this.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s hand, then took it into his own. “Stay with me, my dear. Are you alright?”

“Hng,” Crowley said. Then, “Have you really - wanted this?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said simply. “Yes.”

He leaned forward to kiss Crowley’s cheek, and Crowley turned it into a proper kiss by pressing his lips on Aziraphale’s, his hand grabbing Aziraphale’s jacket to pull him closer. Aziraphale made a surprised sound but kissed back, firmly. There was a clicking sound; Aziraphale had unbuckled his seatbelt. Crowley let out a laugh at that and even while they kept kissing, Aziraphale chuckled, too His hand was in Crowley’s hair. Kissing in a car wasn’t the most comfortable thing, but Crowley didn’t give a damn.

“I’d need to bring my plans,” he got out when they stopped, sounding a bit strangled. “New plants. Lots of plants.”

Aziraphale smiled, so widely that Crowley’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” he said, breathless.

“And - and all my records.”

“Of course.”

“And myself.”

“Well, naturally. That would be the whole point.”

“You really -”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, kissing Crowley again. “I really.”

This was a bloody miracle.

Crowley feared that he might cry. Again. “Alright,” he managed. “Okay.”

Aziraphale kissed his cheek, and this time Crowley let him. He watched as Aziraphale sat back in his seat, fastening his seatbelt and clearing his throat. “Now take us to the cottage, would you? I’d like to be in a bed with you as soon as possible.”

Crowley grinned and started the car. “Anything you want, angel.”

Anything.

* * *

 

1Aziraphale rather felt like crying, too, though mostly in relief that something was starting to happen at all. All in all he was really more confused than anything else, and he also had a bit of headache that he suspected would turn into an impressive migraine soon enough. Suddenly remembering things that happened several millennia ago will do that to you. [return to text]

2Crowley was well aware that he actually could listen to music that wasn’t Queen in the car, but he had still taken to playing Queen every time he sat behind the wheel. He had been listening to Freddie for ages; that was hard to shake off.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley did think about stealing that cactus, by the way.


	24. Chapter 24

It went like this: the bell chimed. Somewhere in the bookshop, there was a string of incomprehensible grumbling and not-quite curses. That was followed by resigned steps approaching whoever had just entered the shop. Then, "Hello! Can I help you?"

Rinse and repeat.

Crowley listened to it all with only one ear. He was sprawled out on the sora in the backroom, scrolling on his phone. It was ridiculous how many jobs there were for humans, really. Horrible, too. How was he supposed to choose?

The bell chimed again; the customer had left. It didn't take long until Aziraphale appeared in the doorway to the backroom, his hands on his hips, glaring at nothing in particular.

"If I have to sell one more book today," he announced, "I am going to do something  _ very  _ unangelic."

Crowley dragged his eyes off the phone screen and arched a brow at Aziraphale. "Like what?"

"Like -" Aziraphale pursed his lips, thinking. "I don't even know. But it will be horrible."

"Really?"

"Yes. You'll be impressed."

"Mh, I bet. C'mere."

Aziraphale huffed, but he sat down on the sofa when Crowley lifted his legs to make room for him. Aziraphale made himself comfortable, his hands on Crowley's ankles, and laid back his head with a sigh.

"It's after five already, anyway," Crowley said. "Why don't you just close for today?"

Aziraphale nodded, yawning. "Yes, I should. In a moment."

Crowley smiled, still scrolling on his phone. "What did you sell?"

"Oh, nothing I can't live without, really. But  _ still." _

"I'm sure it'll be in good hands?" Crowley said, trying to comfort him.

"Yes, obviously. Otherwise I wouldn't have given it away."

"Right." Crowley grinned. "A shame, really. I'd have enjoyed watching you shoo customers out of the shop again, all without the help of some frivolous miracles. Best show in the town."

That earned him a minor glare that was only a twitch of the lips away from being an amused glance. "Oh, I'm certain you'll get that chance again some time."

"Great. Just tell me when you want me to chase them away, yeah?"

"I won't have you scaring away my customers, Crowley." He paused, then, "Well, not as long as nobody tries to buy anything I  _ really _ don't want to sell."

Crowley snorted. They had brought all the books Aziraphale definitely didn't want to part from upstairs months ago, not long after they had returned to London. Aziraphale had had a tiny mental breakdown after realizing how many books he had sold over the years, but he had decided that he wanted to keep selling books, just not those that were dear to him. What made it a little difficult was that  _ all _ books were dear to him, even the horrible and the new ones. But, well - giving up the bookshop really wasn't an option. It was their home, after all.

"Do you know you can get paid for watching paint dry?"

Aziraphale turned his head in Crowley's direction, raising a brow. "Really?"

"Yup, look here." Crowley showed him the phone screen. "Has to be the most boring job ever, though."

Aziraphale blinked slowly at the phone. "Crowley," he said after a moment, sounding surprised. "Are you looking for a  _ job?" _

"No," Crowley said.

"Don't lie to me, love, I can tell."

Crowley groaned and let his mobile drop on his chest. "I'm not looking for a  _ job,  _ I'm looking for something to  _ do." _

"Oh dear. You're bored. Nothing good ever happens when you're bored."

Crowley raised his head, narrowing his eyes at him. "Now what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I  _ remember _ a certain incident in Byzantium -"

"Istanbul, angel. Istanbul."

"It wasn't Istanbul back then," Aziraphale insisted, making Crowley roll his eyes. "Anyway. We got distracted. Why didn't you tell me you are looking for -"

"I am  _ not _ looking for -"

"You  _ obviously _ are," Aziraphale said firmly. He frowned. "You're not lonely, dear, are you? I know I'm busy working all day, but it didn't seem to me like -"

"I don't mind you working, Aziraphale," Crowley said with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. "And I'm not bored, either, not really. It's just. We're human now, eh?"

Aziraphale nodded. "That we are."

"And we're gonna live a very human life."

"Hopefully, yes."

"See?" Crowley said, gesturing around. "Humans have jobs. That's how they pay the bills and get food and everything. And taxes. There's taxes, too. You know?"

"Yes, I'm aware," Aziraphale said dryly. "I've had a job for about thirty years now, and paid taxes for just as long."

"Yes, right. Exactly."

Suddenly, Aziraphale seemed worried. "This isn't because I would have to sell less books, is it? Because Adam put more than enough money on your bank account when he changed everything, you know that. We'll get by. And I don't want you to do anything at all just because I -"

"I  _ know,  _ angel, it's not about that." He made a face. "I've just never been good at doing  _ nothing." _

"Oh, I know that," Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley's ankle. "Of course I know that." A moment passed, then he beamed. "And I'm  _ glad,  _ darling. I know all this was… difficult for you."

"It wasn't easy for you, either," Crowley reminded him, feeling uncomfortable.

"I'm just happy you're happy enough to consider things like this," Aziraphale said, still smiling. "Oh, this is exciting, isn't it? What would you like to do? How about being a nanny again? You did look very fetching."

"Without miracles high heels are hell, though."

"Yes, true. Hm. I've always thought you would do  _ very _ well with a flower shop, but -"

"M'not gonna sell flowers, angel."

"Why not?" Aziraphale seemed almost disappointed. "You don't really have a reputation to worry about anymore, do you?"

"I'd be about as good at selling flowers as you are at selling books, Az."

Aziraphale huffed, offended. "I'll have you know that I'm very good at selling books, now." He frowned. "A bit too good, actually. Yesterday I almost sold a copy of -"

"We're getting distracted again."

"Oh. Yes, right." Aziraphale paused, thinking. "Well, not a flower shop, then. You could be a lawyer?" He gave Crowley a dry look. "Like you told me you were. And lawyers can cause a great deal of trouble, I'm sure you would enjoy it."

"I don't  _ really _ have a law degree, though," Crowley said. "At least none I could use. I mean, I could forge one -"

"You are not going to forge any documents!"

"C'mon, don't act so offended," Crowley drawled. "It's not like you've got a reputation to worry about."

Aziraphale did not seem to appreciate having his own words used against him. "Really, my dear." Suddenly, his face lit up. "Oh! You could get a degree, Crowley! What do you think?"

"What, as in, you changed your mind and I can forge -"

" _ No.  _ You could study. I did love my time in university, maybe it's something for you, too."

Crowley had to laugh - he'd done things like that before, that wasn't the problem. It had just always been out of curiosity and lack of anything better to do, nothing more.

Then again, the circumstances weren't very different now.

Crowley made a thoughtful sound. "Aren't I a little old for that?"

"Nonsense, Crowley," Aziraphale said at once. "Six millennia is practically nothing."

"You know that's not the way I meant it."

"Yes, but it's still nonsense," Aziraphale replied. "I think it's a very good idea. You could enrol for a few courses and see what you like -" He smirked. "Maybe anthropology?"

Crowley huffed a laugh. "Yeah, great idea."

"It'd be better than watching paint dry, certainly. Or what about -"

The bell chimed.

It was impressive how quickly Aziraphale could go from smiling to scowling. Despite his obvious reluctance he nudged Crowley's feet off his lap and stood up. 

"Remember," Crowley said, looking back at his phone, "you'd regret killing someone about ten seconds after killing them."

"We'll see about that," Aziraphale muttered as he left the backroom, and Crowley didn't even try not to laugh.

He expected Aziraphale to shift into his retail persona, which could be creepy as hell or disarmingly charming depending on his mood, but to Crowley's surprise, Aziraphale sounded sincerely pleased when he greeted the customer.

Which meant that it probably wasn't a customer at all.

That assumption was confirmed when, just after a few seconds, Aziraphale called, "Crowley! Look who's here!"

Crowley scowled a bit, but he stood up, curious despite himself. It wasn't like there were many people who would justify a reaction like that; the only people they really  _ knew _ were the folks from Tadfield. Aziraphale didn't really have any real human friends, after all, just quite a lot of acquaintances. Anathema and Newt did visit now and then, and sometimes they even brought the Them along. They weren't bad company, but Crowley still didn't feel like being bothered by any of them by now.

That changed at least a little when he was greeted by an excited "Hello, Mr. Crowley!" as soon as he came out of the backroom.

It was Elsie, the waitress from the café around the corner. Crowley and Aziraphale went there every now and then for breakfast, and Crowley had to admit that he'd come to like the girl. She didn't usually come to the bookshop, though, but now she had even brought someone with her. The tall, dark-haired young woman whose hand Elsie was holding had to be her girlfriend, Anya.

Crowley grinned at them both, but Aziraphale didn't give him the chance to say anything.

"I'm so glad to see you," he told them warmly. "We were in the café just this Saturday, but I think you weren't in, dear."

"Oh, yes, that was my free day," Elsie said. "Sorry."

"Please, you don't need to apologise, I just meant -"

"No, she should, actually," Crowley chimed in. "Nobody else there can make a decent cup of tea. Adam's been complaining about it all weekend, anyway."

Aziraphale's expression wasn't very amused at all, but Crowley just grinned at him. The two first names Adam - as in, the former the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness; that Adam - had given Aziraphale had turned into somewhat of a pet peeve for him, and by now Crowley had taken to teasing him with them.

"Don't listen to him," Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a last look that was supposed to make him behave before he smiled again. "Well, then. What can I do for you? If you're looking for a book, you have come to the right place."

"Actually, we're here to return one," Anya said. She pulled something out of her backpack offered it to Aziraphale, her grin a little crooked. "I've kept it for longer than I should have. I needed it for my thesis -"

"Oh! Yes, I remember. How did it go, hm?" Aziraphale glanced at Elsie, smiling. "Very well, I assume, given how often Elsie here has mentioned how clever you are."

They both blushed a bit, and Crowley felt his grin widen.  _ Humans. _ Adorable, really.

"It went well," Anya said, but didn't elaborate. Crowley got the feeling that she didn't talk a lot. "I just wanted to say, thank you so much. It's been a great help, but you should really take it back. I know how rare it is."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Aziraphale said, putting his hands on the book and nudging it back in her direction. "Keep it, please. I'm sure it's in the very best hands with you."

Anya's eyes widened. "No, really, that's not ne-"

"Mr. Fell!" Elsie interrupted, making everyone else in the room flinch. She took Aziraphale's wrist and lifted it, staring at his hand. "Oh my god! Mr. Fell! When did  _ that _ happen?!"

"Oh," Aziraphale said. "Oh, I. Well. It's a rather recent development, you see -"

"You can't just grab other people's hands," Anya hissed at her girlfriend. "Let him -"

"Sorry, sorry." Elsie let go, but she didn't stop grinning at Aziraphale. And at Crowley. "I'm so happy for you! Really, though, when -"

"Just last week," Crowley said. "It was -"

"Spontaneous," Aziraphale said quickly. "Very spontaneous."

They exchanged a glance, but couldn't look at each other for very long because they could both barely keep from laughing. They could hardly tell anyone that they had made an appointment at the registry office while being absolutely sloshed and had just decided to keep it after they had recovered from their hangover.

"That sounds romantic," Elsie said, still smiling.

"Yes," Aziraphale said, mouth twitching. "Very. Now, my dear, you  _ are _ going to keep the book, or I'll be terribly disappointed. And my congratulations for finishing your thesis."

"Thank you," Anya said, the book now pressed against her chest. She smiled. "Congratulations to you, too."

They stayed for a while longer, after that - Aziraphale liked a bit of gossip, so he and Elsie always had a lot to talk about -, and when they eventually left, Aziraphale stood in the entryway of the shop for a while, looking after them. His hands were fidgeting, playing with the ring on his right hand. 

Crowley joined him there, a bit concerned. "You okay, angel?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said at once. "Yes, of course. I'm just glad I could help them."

"They're happy, then?"

"Oh, yes." Aziraphale finally closed the door. "Well, they worry a bit about the rent, but I do think they'll be fine." He turned to Crowley, smiling. "I'll take your advice and close for today, I think. I wanted to take a shower before we go."

"You do that," Crowley said, smiling, and Aziraphale kissed his cheek before he went upstairs.

Crowley flipped the sign on the door to  _ closed. _ It was good, he thought, that Aziraphale could still help people even without any real angelic interventions. Ever since he remembered, he had gotten a bit better at dealing with all the things he saw and knew about people, too. He slept more, too, although it was clear that he would never be as good at it as Crowley was. But that was fine, really - they would be fine. Aziraphale had adjusted to all his regained memories much better than Crowley had ever even dreamed he would. In the end, the memories simply belonged in Aziraphale's head, and even though it all didn't make a lot of sense to a human brain, everything just seemed to  _ fit. _ Aziraphale hadn't even lost the human memories Adam had given him, although he had admitted that they had become a little secondary. He had said so with a smile, though, and when he told Crowley that he was fine, Crowley felt inclined to believe him.

It was all a little weird, and it also wasn't easy, not always. No, it was just like Crowley had thought it would be, back in Inverness -  _ new. _

_ Humans,  _ he thought, again. It really wasn't so bad.

 

*

 

Later that evening, they were sitting in the Ritz, and Aziraphale was just finishing his dessert. Crowley watches him, more draped across his chair than sitting on it, and smiled. He was a little tipsy; the champagne was very good tonight. Apart from that, Aziraphale was very beautiful, not like that was anything new, and maybe that made Crowley a bit tipsy, too. 

"Hey, Aziraphale?"

"Hmm?"

"What you said earlier."

"Mh hm."

"I'm not just _happy_ _enough,"_ Crowley said. "You know that, right?"

Aziraphale let his spoon sink, and returned Crowley's smile. "Yes, I know. Of course I know."

Crowley's smile turned into a grin. "Is that your sixth sense thingy at it again?"

"It might just be," Aziraphale said, eyes twinkling with something very similar to mischief. "Also, I think I'd like another piece of this. Would you like to share?"

"You mean, would I like to take two bites and leave the rest to you?" Crowley said, already looking where the nearest waiter was. "Sure, angel."

"You can have more than two bites," Aziraphale told him. "Three or four, certainly."

"Oh, how generous."

They continued bickering as they had for many, many years now and would continue doing so for quite a few years more. They ate and they drank, and eventually they went home.

(Not far away, a certain bird was singing - but I'm sure you already knew that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand that's it.
> 
> I just wanted to say, thank you so much for reading and leaving kudos or comments and bookmarks and subscriptions ~~you know, just. For everything.~~ I had so much fun writing this and I hope you liked it, too. ❤

**Author's Note:**

> Here's [my tumblr](https://amidnight--dreary.tumblr.com/)! Don't hesitate to come and say hi!


End file.
